Plantation
by LizSeven
Summary: What if Jean-Luc Picard and Beverly Crusher met under different circumstances? Very different circumstances, say, in a different century. Would they still be attracted to one another? Would they get together or would something keep them apart? I got bored with the same old plot lines and decided to imagine them in a different world. P/C, Some R/T.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note

I solemnly swear I will not profit from this work. The setting for this story was inspired by Coming Out Of the Dark by Jordan Trevor, so props to this writer. I tried, a little, but the historical detail here may be … wrong and I apologize in advance. I hope I haven't offended anyone; I love everyone. There will some 'M' stuff later on and clearly marked. All will be made clear. Eventually. Please keep with it and enjoy.

Peace,

Liz

* * *

Captain Jean-Luc Picard sat at the desk, his desk now, the imposing oak furniture that dominated the office. The room was larger than his space on board his ship, but smaller than the study at Labarre. It felt small to Picard, but he supposed it was appropriate for a gentleman, who needed to appear as though he did little work. At any rate, it had met the needs of his brother, Robert. It remained to be seen whether the sparse room would suffice for Jean-Luc, now that he had inherited the office, the house, the plantation and nearly 200 souls who lived and worked on it.

Since his arrival a week ago, just after the funerals for Robert and his nephew René, Jean-Luc had finalized the issues of the estate with Robert's lawyer and familiarized himself with operations on the vast property. The books were straightforward. The overseer, an odd man named Noonien Soong, did not at first strike Jean-Luc as competent. After he observed the man from a distance, however, he saw that he had a good understanding of cultivation and various other tasks. The workers—no, slaves, Jean-Luc reminded himself, call them what they are—seemed to respect him and to be accustomed to Soong's distracted way of speaking, as though he were constantly becoming lost in his thoughts. Soong was assisted by a man whom Jean-Luc considered the real overseer of the plantation, a slave named Worf. Worf was tall and muscular and spoke with a deep, authoritative voice. Soong often gave orders to Worf with the understanding that the African would communicate them to the rest of the field hands. No, slaves, Jean-Luc insisted.

The affairs of the house were conducted much the same way, with Marie issuing general orders to a highly skilled manager of sorts, an African woman named Guinan. Despite her status as a slave, with no rights whatsoever in the American South, Guinan carried herself with a calm, regal bearing. She saw that the work of the house was accomplished efficiently and to Marie's liking. Marie and Guinan were close, Jean-Luc observed, as Europeans and their servants sometimes grew. Marie often relied on Guinan's advice and assistance and Guinan was always nearby to offer them. Guinan supervised the staff of the house, which included a blind man—slave—who performed sundry small chores for her. If someone else aligned a button and threaded a needle, for example, Geordi could sew it back on to the clothing. He had become familiar enough with the house and yard that he could navigate on his own, with a stick to ensure his path was clear. Still, his presence and ability to make himself useful were another part of the household that discomfited Jean-Luc.

In fact, Jean-Luc had a great deal of difficulty adjusting to the idea of slavery powering his brother's, now his, great plantation. The land, the money in the bank, the riches with which the great house was adorned—all were paid for with blood money, as far as Jean-Luc was concerned. He was resolved to free these people as soon as he could.

Though still very much mourning the tragic loss of her husband and son in a barn fire, his sister-in-law Marie was quite helpful in helping him to learn the ways of southern culture. Having left the vineyard under the expert care of his friend Louis, Jean-Luc had prepared to stay on the plantation for an extended period. He had retired from his commission in the navy nearly a year ago and he had already tired of the vineyard. After a career spent traveling the world, he was ready for a change. He realized that farming in the United States might grow as tedious as farming in France, but he was interested in seeing the country and a different way of life. With its rigid social structure, its heat and humidity and its slavery, life in Georgia was most certainly different from anything he had ever experienced before. Marie guided him in how to dress for the heat, eat fried foods, and the myriad other manners and customs that would enable him to fit in.

Several of the neighbors had paid visits to check on Marie and meet Jean-Luc. The women fluttered over Marie, bringing desserts or other dishes. Jean-Luc usually sat with the female visitors long enough to appear polite, having a drink and perhaps a finger sandwich, but would excuse himself to return to the business of the plantation as soon as possible.

As a group, he noticed, the women were not very subtle in their attempts to flirt with him. Two spinsters, Nella Darren, the younger of the two, and Kate Pulaski, well past her prime, were the first to visit. Jean-Luc ably dodged their questions and, he hoped, communicated his disinterest with his body language and his hasty retreat. Far more persistent was the next caller, Lwaxana Troi. A widow, Mrs. Troi was a formidable opponent, parrying his insistence in returning to work with the retort that he had nearly two hundred slaves and an overseer to do whatever work needed to be done. That comment had sparked a smile and stifled laugh from Mrs. Troi's daughter, Deanna, who was much more pleasant and attractive, but not of any interest to Jean-Luc. Deanna Troi was a young woman who, he thought, deserved a young man. Jean-Luc could not tell if another woman, Alynna Nechayev, a widow of Russian descent, who had been running her late husband's plantation for many years, was interested in him for marriage or for the purchase of Robert's land. He rather suspected the latter, as her conversations typically focused on business—a clear breach of etiquette, according to Marie.

Men from nearby plantations also visited to pay their respects and talk business. Jean-Luc liked Will Riker, the son of a prominent planter and state politician. Riker had offered to help him should he encounter any difficulty and Jean-Luc promised to take him up on the offer if needed. The other gentleman, Quinton DeLancie, known universally by his nickname, "Q," like Mrs. Nechayev, hinted that he was more interested in the land than in Jean-Luc. The man's aggressiveness, fast talk and overly familiar manner immediately put Jean-Luc on guard. Even before he was able to consult Marie and have her confirm his suspicions, he knew he would never trust Q. Just as devious-appearing was Q's petite wife, Victoria, known by her childhood nickname, "Vash." She made suggestive remarks in front of her husband and stared at Jean-Luc with a leer he was more accustomed to seeing on sailors putting in to port and eying saloon women after a long journey. Marie was quite embarrassed by Vash's behavior and took pains to emphasize that she was not close to her, although they did belong to the same sewing circle.

Recalling the trying visits as he wrapped up the day's correspondence, Jean-Luc remembered that Marie had asked the local physician to dinner. She had assured him that he would like the man, who tended to be a more worldly and intriguing conversationalist than the planters. Jean-Luc hoped that he would be, as the dinner would be a long affair with no obvious exit route should it prove uncomfortable or boring. He sighed and opened Robert's journal to read about what needed to be done on the plantation prior to the harvest.

* * *

Beverly Crusher slowed her stride to match that of her companion. She was used to doing so, but had sped up walking downhill without realizing it. Behind her, Dr. Dalen Quaice proceeded deliberately, mindful of his aging bones and eyesight. He caught up to her once the path leveled out. Like Beverly, he carried a heavy black bag of medical supplies and equipment.

"Beverly," he asked, "do you remember the name of the pregnant woman?"

"There were two women, Dalen," she reminded him. "Do you mean the one who was farther along, who must be almost due by now? Her name is Tate."

"Oh yes," Dr. Quaice remembered. "Make sure you check in on her because she went early with her last one. I recall her cabin is in the last section, almost to the fence."

Beverly smiled at her mentor's memory, strong as ever with the more important details, but saving its slowly dwindling strength where matters of lesser importance were concerned. She had worked alongside Dalen Quaice for ten years, ever since her husband, Jack, had died, and the two of them had a good professional relationship. During surgery, Beverly would hand him an instrument before he asked for it. In the office, located in Dalen's house, Beverly kept meticulous patient records, transcribing his detailed discussions of each person's medical conditions and family history. When he examined women and children, Beverly helped the patients feel more at ease, with soothing words and touches.

Always eager to learn, Beverly had taken to science and medicine like a fish to water. She had learned the healing powers of local plants and flowers from her grandmother, Felisa, when she was just a child. She brought that knowledge to Dalen when she needed to find a way to support herself and her son, Wesley. She became his nurse and was such a quick study that Dalen came to think of her as his apprentice, although, as a woman, she of course could not become a doctor. Dalen bristled at the social moré that prevented Beverly from using the title she deserved, and he struck back by raising her pay accordingly and allowing her to practice medicine wherever possible, such as childbirth and treating the female slave population of the county. That is, for the few slave owners, like the Picards, who would allow a white doctor to treat their slaves.

On these plantations, Dalen and Beverly split up to examine the patients by gender on an annual basis, more or less. Beverly had learned even more about medicinal herbs and roots from slave healers well versed in African and southern plants. She was always eager to learn more.

"It's hard to tell which one of us will finish first," Dalen said. "It might be easier for us to meet up at the house."

Beverly nodded. "If I get there first, I'm going to have some wine with Marie while we wait for you," she joked. As a young woman, Beverly had traveled some and, although it was not considered ladylike, when she visited her French friend, she enjoyed the French custom of having wine with, and sometimes before, dinner.

Dalen laughed. "And if I get there first, _I'm_ going to have some wine with Marie and her brother-in-law."

Beverly's face clouded. She had been so busy preparing for these visits this afternoon that she had forgotten that Marie's long-estranged brother-in-law was staying with her. Marie had told her when he was en route, but she had not visited her friend since the man's arrival. As fond as Beverly was of Marie, and of René, she had always found Robert to be a bit stodgy, even mal-tempered at times. He had seemed to disapprove of her failure to re-marry, without saying so directly, and he simply frightened Wesley.

Now, his brother was here. Beverly imagined him to be just like Robert, except possibly worse. Marie had once explained the rift between the two brothers, Robert dutifully taking care of his parents and the family property, while the younger one ran off to join the navy. Robert did not seem to think much of his brother and, for his part, the brother never wrote or visited. He did not seem like a family man, and Beverly had built up a negative image of him based on what she had heard. If anything, he reminded her of the kind of men who traveled through the South, restless, impatient and, often, looking for a fling with an unattached woman. She had had to fend off and, in some cases, fight off, plenty of those men since Jack's death.

Beverly was content to assist Dalen, cook, keep house for them both—she owned a small house next door to him—and raise Wesley. From an early age, Wesley had been precocious. As he grew older, Beverly took on more of his educational responsibilities herself, finding books for him in libraries near and far, until she ran out of ways to give him new information. At that point, she enlisted others to train him in practical matters, such as Dalen, whose medical books Wesley had read. Another tutor was Noonien Soong, whom Wesley had met while Beverly visited Marie. Soong gave Wesley practical experience in areas in which Beverly knew very little, such as agriculture and mechanics.

Taking care of her home, guiding Wesley's education and working with Dalen took up nearly all of Beverly's time, leaving no energy or hours for romance. In the little free time she had, she was part of a sewing circle and she read voraciously, medical books, but also novels, poems and plays. Because she tended to be more interested in the arts than most people in the county, she gravitated toward Marie, who shared her interests. The two women also felt a bond as outsiders, Marie because she was from another country, and Beverly, because of her lifestyle. Now, tragically, they shared widowhood.

Beverly sighed. For the sake of her friend, whose wounds were still raw, and whom she truly wanted to see, Beverly would tolerate the brother-in-law. Surely, she could make it through one dinner.


	2. Chapter 2

Out of habit, Marie checked the table. Everything was in its place, as she knew it would be. Guinan never made a mistake, never missed a utensil or placed a napkin too close to the plate or the table's edge. Marie still felt it was her responsibility to check such things and, these days, it helped calm her nerves to stick to her routine.

Countless visiting friends and corresponding family members had assured her that her pain would diminish with time, but to Marie that was unthinkable. Every moment of every day, it seemed, she needed something to distract her from the loss of her husband and only child. Guinan essentially ran the house and Marie had no knowledge or ambition to run the plantation, which left her with many empty hours to cry and mourn.

Jean-Luc's arrival had helped. She felt better having a man around to take care of business matters and assure her safety and Jean-Luc proved to be quite companionable, although she had not known him well. As a career naval officer, he was perpetually at sea. Over the years of her marriage, she had come to realize that even when he was on shore leave, Jean-Luc preferred to stay away from Robert's and her home, both while they were living in France and after they had emigrated to America.

Marie occupied herself with visitors who came with the dual purpose of paying respects to her and sizing up Jean-Luc, as either a business rival or a potential suitor. She also felt the need to educate her very European brother-in-law on the ways of her southern community. Yet, even with the commotion surrounding the new man of the house, Marie still suffered her loss in quiet moments alone.

Marie was looking forward to entertaining Dalen Quaice and Beverly Crusher for dinner. Robert and she had always enjoyed the intelligence and humor of the doctor and his nurse. Marie liked Beverly's no-nonsense approach to things; it recalled her own upbringing and the simpler way they had lived in the vineyard in France. Before Robert had uprooted the family, at the urging of a cousin whose family had come to the Americas two centuries earlier, to make a fortune in cotton. The move was the only risk she had ever known Robert, a conservative farmer for most of his life, to take. It had worked spectacularly, increasing their wealth far beyond what the modest vineyard in Labarre could have made. And Robert transplanted a vine from Labarre to grow grapes in Georgia, so, they had their wine as well.

At any rate, Marie knew Dalen was an intellectual, very well-read and well-traveled, thus he would make a sympathetic dinner companion for Jean-Luc. For that matter, Beverly was also well-read and had traveled to Europe once. Marie sighed at the thought of the other women Jean-Luc had had to endure, batting their eyelashes, giggling and making dull small talk when he clearly was not interested in them. Some of them were supposedly experts on men, yet they had not spotted the clues that he was obviously not looking for a wife. Robert had always said that Jean-Luc was far more married to the sea then he could ever be to a woman. His behavior since he had arrived had borne that assessment out.

Marie knew that Beverly would not pester her reclusive brother-in-law. Since the death of her husband, Beverly had rarely expressed an interest in any man. Several of the local men had pursued her, including Will Riker and Reg Barclay, but Beverly remained aloof, sometimes even rude, to would-be suitors. She got along very well with Dalen, who was more of a father figure to her, and, after some time, with Will, but she radiated her disinterest to most available men, who readily branded her with an icy reputation. Marie hoped that she would warm up enough to converse with Jean-Luc and she hoped that Jean-Luc would find her a refreshing change.

"Excuse me, Madame."

Marie started at the sound of Guinan's voice.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Guinan quickly said.

"No, that's all right, Guinan," Marie turned to smile at the dark-skinned woman. "I'm afraid I was lost in reverie."

Guinan looked at the face of her mistress closely for a moment. "A happier reverie, I hope."

They were the words of a friend, not of a servant. It was her way of expressing her concern and Marie was touched.

"I was just thinking about dinner," she answered. "I hope Jean-Luc enjoys our guests' company."

Guinan nodded. "That's what I came to tell you. Dr. Quaice is washing up for dinner now. He told me that Mrs. Crusher will be along in a short while. She's checking on Tate."

"Oh, good. Can you please tell the Captain to come down?"

* * *

Jean-Luc had dressed for dinner as he would have in France, with a white silk cravat and black tails, thus he felt overdressed as he shook the hand that Dalen Quaice, dressed in a simple suit, proffered.

"Captain Picard, it's an honor to meet you," the older man beamed as he energetically shook hands. "I've heard something of your exploits from your late brother, may he rest in peace, and I look forward to hearing more from the horse's mouth."

Jean-Luc did not understand the colloquialism, but the doctor's manner was unmistakably genial. "Doctor, I'm afraid you have me at the advantage. All I know of you is the character reference Marie provided this morning, but I must say it was a sterling one."

Marie gestured toward the veranda. "Gentlemen, I suggest we have a sip of wine before dinner. Beverly is still seeing patients but Guinan will show her in when she's finished."

Jean-Luc looked puzzled. He had not known of any other dinner guests. Dalen picked up on his confusion.

"Beverly Crusher is my nurse," he explained. "She tends to the women while I see the men."

"Ah," Jean-Luc nodded in comprehension and held out his arm for Dalen to precede him through the doors to the veranda. Following behind, he knew the doctor would not see the disappointment on his face at the prospect of eating a meal—dinner, no less—with another one of Marie's southern belle friends.

"She should be joining us soon," Dalen continued. "Just one more patient to see, but she lives on the farthest point of your land, almost to the Ro property."

The reference to the neighboring plantation gave Jean-Luc an idea of the distance. He had ridden the property and knew from looking at the abstract in Robert's office that the land behind his belonged to a family with an unusually short surname.

"I haven't met the Ros yet," he commented as they sat on cushioned wicker chairs.

"Well, that'd be kind of difficult," Dalen said. "Ro and his wife—he was a Chinaman and she was a local girl—died several years ago. Rumor has it, he was killed by Indians and she died of a broken heart."

"Oh, my," Jean-Luc responded automatically. He had no idea that the residents of the county were at risk for such violence.

Dalen seemed to read his mind. "Not to worry. The United States government has since re-located all the tribes that might get a mind to try to take their land back from us. We're all pretty safe around here. In fact, Ro's daughter lives there on her own and she's never had any trouble that I've heard of."

The conversation, like the wine, flowed easily. The two men discussed local personages and happenings, then moved on to politics and philosophy. They laughed and scowled together and Marie was pleased to see that, as she had thought, they were of the same mind. After a while they were talking like good friends. After the second bottle of wine was finished and the sun was threatening to hide beneath the distant treetops, Guinan appeared in the doorway.

"Excuse me."

Marie looked up. "Yes, Guinan?"

"Mrs. Crusher is just getting cleaned up for dinner. She will be ready momentarily."

Dalen looked as though he had forgotten about his nurse. "What the devil took her so long?" He asked Guinan.

"She delivered Tate's baby this afternoon," Guinan answered calmly. "A boy. Mother and child are doing well."

"That's wonderful news, Guinan," Marie said, happiness and sadness mixing in her eyes. "You'll send her a bottle of milk and a loaf of sweetbread tomorrow morning, won't you?" It was a custom for all new mothers to have milk and extra food.

"Already taken care of," Guinan answered.

"And please help Beverly to find a dress from my closet to borrow."

Guinan nodded and, with a slight bow, backed into the house. Jean-Luc got the impression that that instruction had already been taken care of as well, but that the African woman was too politic to say so.

Marie looked off into the distance, remembering when she was a young mother delivering her baby boy. The excitement and the fear of her new role as the caretaker of a completely helpless infant, a precious new life, charged with teaching him, raising him, keeping him safe . . . .

"Perhaps we should go inside," Jean-Luc suggested, seeing the faraway look on his sister-in-law's face. He led Marie and Dalen into the sitting room, where his eyes alit on an old family heirloom on an étagère. He picked it up and held it out for his companions. "Marie, I don't know if you know the history of this vase."

His distraction worked. The three of them began to talk about the Picard family collections.

* * *

Beverly Crusher had not wanted to take a bath, but once she was lying in the warm soap-bubble filled tub, she changed her mind. She leaned back and rested her head on a rolled-up towel on the edge of the tub and closed her eyes. Guinan and her young helpers had drawn the bath, undressed her, taken her bloody dress to launder and scrubbed her back. She was unaccustomed to such luxury.

She knew she could not linger long, but she allowed herself a few precious minutes to relax. No medicine, no patients, no plants, no cooking, no chores, no Wesley, no Dalen. She seldom had time to herself.

"Aaah," she sighed in the peace and quiet of a guest bedroom.

A knock on the door disturbed her too-brief respite.

"Yes?" She called out.

"Mrs. Crusher, it's Guinan," came the voice from the other side of the door.

That was short, Beverly thought. "All right, I'm ready."

Guinan entered the room with a large towel, which she held open in front of her. Once she reached the tub, she lifted the towel so that it blocked her eyes and Beverly was able to stand up unobserved.

"Thank you," Beverly said, as she took the towel and wrapped it around herself. "Guinan, you said something about borrowing a dress from Marie?" Beverly stepped out of the metal tub, turning as she did so, to face Guinan.

A teenaged girl stood next to Guinan holding a teal satin party dress adorned with beadwork. She smiled shyly at Beverly.

Beverly gasped. " _That_ dress?" The girl's smile vanished. "Oh, no, there's nothing wrong with it." Beverly did not want the girl to feel that she had done anything wrong. "It's just that . . . well, it's a very fancy dress, Guinan, for a small dinner." She turned her attention to the older woman.

Guinan seemed unperturbed. "This dress arrived from Paris poorly altered. It's too long for Madame Picard and probably the only thing she has that is long enough for you. Besides, a small dinner can be fancy." Her tone seemed to settle the matter.

The bath turned out to be just one of Guinan's ministrations. After dressing, Beverly was subjected to nail filling and hair styling.

"Guinan, this is ridiculous," Beverly said as another woman curled and teased her hair. "I'm just going to eat dinner with Marie and Dalen, for heaven's sake. They're probably waiting for me."

"They are and so is Captain Picard." Guinan replied. "He's used to eating dinner late, like they do in France. And they get all dressed up for dinner in France."

"Oh." Beverly frowned. Guinan had a point. She sighed and let the woman continue her fussing.

* * *

 _Where the devil is Beverly,_ Dalen caught himself thinking as Jean-Luc rambled on about yet another Picard family knickknack. _I'm starving._

As his eyes swept the room for something to hold his attention, he saw movement from the direction of the front foyer. He turned and saw Marie—no, Marie was here with Jean-Luc and him—it was Beverly!—walking shyly toward the room. Wearing Marie's dress, with her hair styled differently, he hadn't recognized her at first. _Well, that was quite a cleaning-up,_ he thought.

Beverly walked into the room feeling a bit nervous and hoping that Marie's brother-in-law did not read anything into her manicured appearance. _I never should have indulged Guinan,_ she regretted. She rearranged her face into what she hoped was a friendly, closed-mouth smile.

Marie marveled at how beautiful Beverly looked. The taller woman rarely dressed in party clothes or bothered with styling her hair. Marie could not remember the last time she had seen her friend so gussied up.

"Ah, Beverly, finally," Dalen said.

At his words, Jean-Luc set down the wine carafe he had been discussing and turned to greet the nurse. He plastered a fake, polite grin on his face, steeling himself to endure another ordeal with another of Marie's friends, for Marie's sake.

Dalen was surprised to see Beverly stop suddenly, her mouth's smile replaced with a rather unbecoming, startled o-shape. Her eyes flashed alarm and, _good God,_ he thought he saw her cheeks blushing red. He had not thought that Beverly might not enjoy Jean-Luc's company as he had. He had not thought of Beverly's abhorrence of single men. With the warmth of the wine and of his host, he had thought the evening would be just another lovely dinner with the Picards. Now he realized that Beverly might be uncomfortable in Jean-Luc's presence.

Marie turned to look at Jean-Luc and was shocked to see his smile had disappeared. He stood still, straight as though he were at attention, staring at Beverly. Marie had never known Jean-Luc to be rude, even though she knew the pushy female visitors had taxed his patience. He had not even met Beverly and he was already being unconscionably impolite. Whatever was the matter with him?

Jean-Luc had turned around to meet Dalen's nurse with every intention of acting the proper gentleman farmer, but when his gaze fell upon the incredible vision that was Beverly Crusher, all intentions, indeed, all rational thought, abandoned him. He was immediately struck by her beauty: her tall, slender figure, thin neck, her voluptuous red hair-the color of fire, of passion. But, as much as he was attracted to her physically, it was her eyes, and the promise of what was behind him, that held his attention. He could not find words to explain what he sensed. He somehow knew that this remarkable woman was different from any woman he had ever met—although he had met many in his travels—and he was drawn to her like any hopeful moth to the brightness and warmth of an exotic flame.

Beverly had stepped into the room with some trepidation and the walls around her solidly intact. When Jean-Luc Picard gracefully spun around and faced her, she felt all pretense, all her defenses fall. The way he stood, slender and ramrod straight, dashing in his formal clothing, a proper French gentleman. All at once, she was taken by his alluring appearance: his dark eyebrows, the shape of his head, the angular lines of his face, the small cleft in his chin. His expressive eyes drew and held her attention, as though they had something secret to say to her. He looked both strong and sensitive at the same time. Although she stood at least ten feet away from him, she felt a warmth from him, as though she could feel him touching her, as though she could feel his hands, on her waist, on her shoulders. Her body awoke from a deep slumber and reacted in ways it had not since Jack had died. She suddenly realized that she had been holding her breath.

Marie, as hostess, took matters into her own hands to overcome the awkwardness of the moment. She stepped forward for the introductions. "Beverly, may I introduce my brother-in-law, Captain Jean-Luc Picard?"

Beverly's eyes widened and she took a breath as Captain Picard walked up to her and bowed.

Suddenly feeling overheated, Jean-Luc held himself together in proximity to this beautiful creature by observing the formal etiquette of his culture. He hated to take his eyes from hers even for the brief seconds that he bowed politely to her.

"And, Jean-Luc, may I present my friend, Mrs. Beverly Crusher."

Without thinking, Beverly held her right hand out in front of her. Jean-Luc stepped closer, took her hand in his, and kissed it.

His eyes closed, Jean-Luc smelled a seductive mix of flowers and soap as he touched his lips to the soft skin of Beverly's hand. He heard an audible gasp from her—but a gentle one, as she inhaled. It sounded to him, as though her response was more pleasure than shock at what may have been a social impropriety. He did not care in the least if he had broken a rule, as long as this beautiful woman was not upset with him.

Beverly noticed her bosom heaving with labored breaths as Jean-Luc kissed and continued to hold her hand. She felt embarrassment creep up her body, alongside a longing that she thought had deserted her forever. When he released her hand, she dropped it slowly, reluctantly, and recaptured his eyes with hers.

" _Enchanté,"_ Jean-Luc said.

" _Le plaisir est le mien."_

Jean-Luc was shocked. _"Parlez vous francais?"_ Was it possible that this enchanting woman was French?

" _Oui. J'ai vécu à Paris depuis deux ans avec mon mari de défunt."_

"I am sorry for your loss," Jean-Luc said, sincerely, for he did not wish this woman any pain. But, deep down in his heart, and perhaps in other parts of his body, he quietly, and somewhat guiltily, rejoiced.

"M _erci_." Beverly nodded her head as she answered and Jean-Luc feared that her graceful gesture and her piercing eyes upon him would stop his heart.

Beverly felt her heart flutter as Jean-Luc bowed again and extended his arm to invite her to the dining room. She slid her hand into the crook of his arm and, as they walked, felt nearly faint at his closeness. She did not calm any when he slid a chair out from the table for her to sit down, allowing her to breathe his clean, softly musky scent as he pushed the chair in and momentarily stood behind her. Too quickly, he moved to seat Marie at the far end of the table.

Across from her, Beverly saw Dalen's red-with–alcohol face smiling at her. She felt hot and worried that she was blushing the same shade.

"So, Mrs. Crusher," Jean-Luc began, sitting down to her left, "Dr. Quaice tells me that you're his nurse."

"It's _Dalen,_ for Pete's sake, Jean-Luc. We've been talking for ages like old friends. Don't go and get formal on me." Dalen's interjection drew some attention away from Beverly, to her liking.

"Yes, I am."

"And I further understand," Jean-Luc continued, "that I owe you my gratitude for treating the African women who live on my property."

"Yes, I do treat them."

This time, Guinan, ladling out butternut squash soup at Beverly's elbow, interrupted. "If I may, sir?" She asked Jean-Luc.

"By all means." His raised eyebrows indicated that Guinan rarely spoke up in such a manner at a dinner.

"Dr. Crusher—for that is what we black folks call her—is a very caring and talented doctor. She tends to the needs of all of us, from the young to the old, from hand-holding to surgery."

Jean-Luc looked impressed, but Dalen again beat everyone to the punch. "I couldn't agree more, Guinan. Beverly's the best apprentice I've ever had in all my years of practicing medicine."

"Indeed." Jean-Luc looked at Beverly admiringly, making her certain that she was blushing.

Thinking quickly, Beverly asked him, "And I hear that you are a sea captain?"

"Yes, recently retired." Jean-Luc poured her a glass of wine.

"Thank you," Beverly said, as she lifted her glass for a sip. "Do you miss it?"

"Miss it?"

"The sea. I would imagine it would be difficult to settle down in one place after traveling the world."

Her observation startled Jean-Luc, who did, in fact, miss sailing the oceans, exploring new worlds. No one had asked him that question. "Why, yes, I do." Surprised, he looked at Beverly to find her looking at him as though she could read his mind, her blue eyes piercing the stony exterior behind which he always hid his emotions. Surprised, he realized that he had not been hiding his emotions with Beverly.

The conversation flowed as smoothly as the wine. Guinan served dinner and the four of them chatted and laughed on topics ranging from music and literature to history and travel. Jean-Luc was pleased that his guests held a more sophisticated view of politics. Beverly was happily surprised to learn that Jean-Luc appreciated the arts.

Captivated by the woman seated on his right and fueled by wine, Jean-Luc felt compelled to ask her a somewhat personal and blatantly impolite question. "Mrs. Crusher—"

"Please," she interrupted, "call me Beverly."

"Beverly, there's one thing I'm curious about. You are an intelligent, educated woman, who's traveled to the North and to Europe."

"Yes?"

"I wonder why you chose to remain living here in this remote, rural town. Surely, other opportunities presented themselves to you."

The question bothered Beverly. Implied within it was the question as to why she had never remarried. Ordinarily, such a personal probe would cause her to either excuse herself from or lash out at her interrogator. But, Jean-Luc looked at her and held her gaze. Suddenly, Beverly did not want to avoid the question. She wanted to tell him how she felt and she wanted him to understand her.

"I suppose I stayed for my son, Wesley. I wanted him to grow up around people he knew, in a place that was small and safe. And I, I've always been wary of anything disrupting our home life."

Jean-Luc thought immediately of Labarre and how it would in many ways be an ideal place to raise a family. Listening to her explanation, he could appreciate the desire for such a home although he had never wanted it. He nodded at Beverly with understanding and even more admiration.

"Well, then," he said, "we shall have to do what we can to bring culture and the arts to you here."

Beverly smirked. "Music in this part of the world, Captain, consists of the occasional fiddle and banjo playing at a hoe-down."

None of the words were familiar to him. "Fiddle?" He began with the first.

Beverly leaned in his direction conspiratorially. "It's like a violin but it plays a very different kind of music than you would hear at a symphony orchestra concert."

"I will be more than happy to sample some local fiddle music, if you would do me the honor of accompanying me to the symphony one day."

Dalen and Marie stopped eating and looked at one another in dread. Jean-Luc had unwittingly crossed the line that Beverly kept drawn between herself and potential male suitors. They prepared themselves for the upbraiding they expected him to receive. It never came.

"If you don't mind waiting a long time for the symphony to come to our little backwater, I'd be happy to." Beverly cut herself another piece of meat, appearing to be unaware of Dalen and Marie's shocked eyes on her. "Once a year, there's a symphony concert about a three hours' ride from here."

"Excellent. Then we shall make plans for the ride. Marie, Dalen, perhaps you would like to join us?" Jean-Luc casually took a drink of wine as he looked up at his other two dinner companions, for the first time in several minutes.

 _It must be the wine,_ Dalen thought. _I could swear I just heard this Frenchman make a date with Beverly._ With a small smile, Beverly sat comfortably eating dinner and sipping her wine, conversing with Jean-Luc as though she met new men every day of the week and enjoyed their company. It was astounding.

Marie let the wine warm her as she glanced at her brother-in-law and her friend. After all the painful lunches and iced teas with women that she had witnessed Jean-Luc just barely endure, he had suddenly transformed into a charming, solicitous dinner companion. Neither did he appear intoxicated. It seemed an unexplained miracle until Marie realized that she was witnessing love at first sight.

* * *

Beverly tried not to smile as the carriage drove away but she could barely suppress her contentment. Dalen noticed. Still feeling the effects of the alcohol, he did not mince his words.

"Well, you seemed to enjoy Captain Picard's company," he said turning to catch her startled face.

Beverly swallowed and collected herself.

"Yes, he was very pleasant. Very interesting. Didn't you think so?"

"Yes, yes I did." Dalen looked straight ahead as he drove the horses, grinning from ear to ear.

* * *

The two Picards stood in the doorway, watching the carriage drive away. Marie stole a glance at her brother-in-law and saw his eyes following the buggy as though he could see the woman inside it.

"Well," she ventured, "what did you think of Dalen and Beverly?"

Jean-Luc composed himself instantly. "You were right, Marie. They were more interesting company than the usual locals." He turned to face her. "Thank you for arranging this dinner. Now, if you don't mind, I'm rather tired from my long day and my imbibing. Good night."

He strode inside as though nothing had happened, as though he had not just spent the last hours staring at a beautiful woman with a longing that Marie had never seen on his face before. She marveled at his ability to rein in his emotions so quickly and so completely. But the trait also frightened her.


	3. Chapter 3

J.P. Hanson was a stout man with graying hair, dressed nicely in a tailored suit. His watch chain, dangling in a smile across his stomach, jangled as he sat down and reached for the glass of wine Jean-Luc offered him.

"Thank you," he said, his eyes lighting up. He took a quick sip then sat back. "Ah, one of the perquisites of visiting the Picard homestead. Instead of iced tea, an excellent wine."

"Thank you." Jean-Luc accepted the compliment graciously and sat in the armchair on the other side of the fireplace.

J.P. got right down to business. "Jean-Luc, I'm your lawyer. I was Robert's lawyer for 20-some years and I was his friend. I hope to be your friend as well."

He paused to drink. Jean-Luc felt that he should say something, but he did not want to pledge his friendship until he heard what the lawyer had to say about his request.

"Therefore," J.P. continued, "I'm going to give you legal advice, but I'm also going to give you financial advice and practical advice."

Jean-Luc leaned forward to listen.

"Yes, you can free all your slaves. They're your property—"

Jean-Luc winced at the word.

"—and you're free to do whatever you want with them. There would be a legal form to fill out and notarize for each one of them, which involves a small fee. Naturally, with so many forms, I would offer you a fair discount."

Jean-Luc nodded.

"That's the easy part." J.P. drank some wine. "The financial results of doing this are more complicated. You currently have about 147 slaves working on the land. We'll leave the house out the equation for now. At the prevailing wage for freedman farmhands, and the prevailing rate for cotton, you would only be able to afford to pay about 35 farmhands."

Jean-Luc did not need to do detailed calculations. "I can't run the plantation with that few people," he admitted readily.

J.P. looked relieved that Jean-Luc appreciated his point. "There's a reason your neighbors are all fired up about the abolitionists in the North. They threaten the entire economic system that allows them to earn a handsome profit."

Jean-Luc had been thinking. "But," he interrupted, "if I can find a way to increase the yield of my land, then I might be able to employ more workers. Perhaps, not all of them—"

"I would be willing to bet that not all of them would want to stay," J.P. noted.

Jean-Luc nodded. "True. So, I would have to find a way to accommodate a sizeable workforce but not necessarily all I have working here now."

"But you don't know anything about the local soil and farming methods."

"No, I don't, but I employ people who do, and I have the benefit of Robert's journal."

J.P. had finished his wine during the exchange. Jean-Luc politely refilled his glass and gave the gentleman a moment to drink before he spoke again. "Jean-Luc, let me tell you the practical side of things. Suppose you set all the slaves free then you divide up the land among them and return to France with Marie. You leave, let's say, 100 plots of land with black tenant farmers on them.

"How long do you think it will take before the country squires in the county chase them off and take the land over? Kyle Riker's right down the road from you. He's an enterprising plantation owner."

"I haven't met him yet," Jean-Luc mumbled, "though I do know his son."

"The apple fell far from the tree in that family," J.P. chuckled. "No, Kyle's been travelling for his business and his other job, as a state senator. What about Mrs. Nechayev? Her property adjoins yours in the northwest corner, doesn't it? I know she'd like to expand. She's tough on her slaves, too, gets a lot of work out of them."

Jean-Luc had heard rumors of her treatment of farmhands on her land. He frowned at the thought of Alynna Nechayev whipping his people, as he had come to think of them.

"Which of your fine neighbors do you think will move into your house when you've gone, hmm? Maybe Q will take it over. I know his wife likes expensive things. I'm sure she'd love to—"

"How can all that happen?" Jean-Luc protested. "What about the law?"

J.P. let out a little laugh. "The law? Q is the deputy sheriff in these parts. His cousin, who's also called Q, is the sheriff. I told you about Kyle Riker. Alynna Nechayev's husband was the judge and a U.S. Congressman. No one's going to mess with these people, not to defend a group of colored tenant farmers. The best thing that you can do for your slaves might just be to keep things the way they are."

Jean-Luc sighed and nodded. "J.P., I appreciate your . . . explaining the situation to me. I can see that I shall have to amend my original plan." The lawyer nodded, thankful that his message had been understood. "However, I cannot continue this inhumane and revolting practice on property that I own."

J.P.'s face fell.

"I will work out the details of how to continue operations on the plantation. Perhaps the vineyard in France can subsidize us for a time. But, I am going to free every human in bondage on this land as quickly as I can and I am asking you to please begin drafting the papers to do so."

From the few times that Robert Picard had mentioned his brother, J.P. had come to think of Jean-Luc as an intelligent man of the world. Clearly, however, there were some parts of the world beyond his comprehension. He had hoped not to have to speak of it, but he owed it to Robert to take care of his property and his naïve brother.

He leaned closer to his new client and lowered his voice for emphasis. "Jean-Luc, perhaps I haven't explained this well. When I said that your neighbors would run your slaves off this land, I didn't mean they would scare them off or argue with them to convince them to leave. They'll kill anyone who resists or even moves too slowly for them—man, woman or child. They'll kill them."

"J.P., I can't believe that these people would—"

"Believe it." J.P. sat back. "Have you ever met your neighbor, Ms. Laren Ro?"

Jean-Luc shook his head.

"Ever wonder why you never met her?"

Truthfully, Jean-Luc had not. One less embarrassing encounter with a local gentlewoman suited him fine. "I haven't been here that long."

"Everyone else in the county came calling, didn't they? Your neighbors came to see if you were interested in selling. The available women came to see if you were buying." J.P. chortled at his own joke. "But Laren Ro didn't come, did she?" He paused for dramatic effect. "Truth is, Miss Ro rarely leaves her house.

"Her father was from China. He came over to work on the railroad and kept moving on the rails till he got here. Fell in love with a local young lady, an heiress. The scandal of five counties when they got married. But it didn't end there.

"Ro felt a kind of . . . kinship, if you can believe it, with his wife's slaves. He wanted to free them all and some people say that he did. All I know for sure is that a good number of his slaves starting leaving, walking off the property and walking away. Pretty soon, news of this spread to the other plantations—and to the slaves on the other plantations.

"It seemed like they were all getting into their heads that they wanted to be free. There was violence, revolts, threats, it was terrible." J.P. leaned toward Jean-Luc for emphasis. "And Ro actually _encouraged_ them. He supported the slaves against his own neighbors. How do you think your good Christian neighbors responded to Ro's attempts to steal their property?"

Speaking on top of Jean-Luc's protest, J.P. answered his own question. "They murdered him. Riker, Nechayev, Q. They hung Ro from a tree on his own property. Right in front of his wife and young daughter." J.P. sat back in his chair. "After that, his widow stopped talking this freedom nonsense and none of the other slaves left her property. But, she was damaged by the whole event. She didn't last long. She died of mental illness, leaving it all to her daughter. Of course, the shame of her father's actions scarred the daughter just as it had the mother. She never married, doesn't socialize. Oh, I think the women finally let her join the sewing circle, but that was probably more out of a desire to see what she looked like than any kindness."

Jean-Luc did not speak immediately. He appreciated J.P.'s warning and understood that he must have held Robert in very high regard indeed to speak so candidly and work so strenuously to try to persuade him to change his mind. He realized that he would need a carefully thought out and executed plan to free the human beings living and working on his property, but the dangers in doing so did not deter him. "Thank you, J.P., for your concern. I will not act hastily and I certainly do not intend to place anyone's life in danger. However," his voice rose, with a power and depth that surprised his companion, "nothing can deter me from freeing these people. Slavery is unconscionable. It is wrong. Every human, whether he is descended from Europe or Africa, or Asia, has a right to live his life in freedom. I cannot live knowing that my family is . . . benefiting illegitimately on the labors of these people. I must do what I believe to be right."

The lawyer did not speak right away. He sat and looked at the carpet as though he needed some time to absorb what he had heard. "Well, it is against my advice," J.P. conceded, "but you are my client and, I hope, my friend, and I will do as you wish."

In the dark servants' hallway behind the sitting room, Guinan smiled. She could not articulate exactly how she knew, but she had known from the moment she had met him that Jean-Luc Picard was a different kind of man.

* * *

The morning rain had given way to a humid afternoon. Jean-Luc dismounted in front of Dr. Quaice's house and office and tied up his horse. He regarded the white wooden building that served as the only physician's office in town and Dalen's residence. Larger than many houses around it, but not pretentious. Maintained, but not ornate.

In his hand, he held the book, William Shakespeare's _Much Ado About Nothing_ , that he had brought for Beverly. He smoothed his jacket, looked up and suddenly realized he had no idea what to say to her.

Jean-Luc was quite unaccustomed to this feeling. If he thought about it, he knew deep down that he was not the most attuned man to the feelings of women. Fortunately, this had long ceased being a problem for him as he had dedicated himself to his naval career. The women he met in that capacity were only temporary companions and, when he was younger at least, he had excelled at _that_ type of relationship.

Now, however, he felt distinctly like an awkward schoolboy approaching the sacred object of his first infatuation. Nervous about saying the right thing, he tried to compose what he would say ahead of time. He ran through typical greetings and pleasantries in his head, but he had no idea how to move the conversation to a topic that might interest her. He remembered her saying that she enjoyed literature, including Shakespeare. Perhaps, he thought, the Bard would help him find the words.

Earlier in the day, as he readied himself for the trip into town, Jean-Luc had pondered the possibility that perhaps he had only found himself attracted to Beverly Crusher because of the alcohol he had consumed. The wine, perhaps, could explain many of his unexpected reactions—perspiration, feeling hot around the collar, the desire to touch her.

He stopped himself. It would not do for him to dwell on those thoughts in public. He must be presentable. He strode purposefully up the wooden steps to the house without giving himself further time for reflection and knocked on the front door.

"Come in."

Taking a confidant deep breath, he opened the door in response to her directive.

Beverly looked up from the ledger on her desk to see Jean-Luc Picard standing in the doorway, his hat in his hand.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Crusher," he said. "I didn't mean to disturb you, but I'm having dinner with Dr. Quaice at the hotel today."

"Good afternoon, Captain Picard," Beverly managed as her heart began to race. "Won't you come in? Dr. Quaice is with a patient right now. I apologize, he's usually very good with his appointments." She opened a smaller book on the desk to check if Dalen had mistakenly double-booked his mid-day.

"Oh, no," Jean-Luc quickly confessed. "I'm a bit early." In fact, he was more than a bit early as he had hoped to have time to see Beverly.

"Oh, you are?" She looked up at him with a devilish smile, as though she saw right through his ruse.

Jean-Luc found that her expression, the knowing grin and twinkling eyes, had the effect of rooting him to the spot where he stood. How had he ever managed to be so relaxed, so talkative and uninhibited around her at dinner? Ah, he realized, _that_ was the wine _._

"Please sit down," she led him into an adjacent sitting room and a small couch, "while I get you something to drink."

He liked having specific directions to follow. "Thank you. That would be very nice." He sat down as she walked toward the rear of the house. As much as he dreaded another glass of iced tea, he was happy that he had inserted himself into her daily routine and would have a chance to talk with her before leaving with Dalen.

Beverly tried furiously to calm herself as she walked out to the ice house. While she was thrilled to see Jean-Luc again, the suddenness of his appearance startled her. Dalen must have made the date with him and forgotten to tell her. She poured a glass of lemonade from the pitcher that she always kept in the ice house on hot days. The heat! Beverly thought about how she must appear to Jean-Luc—the humidity affecting her hair, done up in a simple bun; her dress plain and comfortable, practical for moving in; her odor, from sweating all day doing her morning chores and sitting inside the office with its poor ventilation. What if the only attraction he had felt toward her was based on her gussied-up appearance thanks to Guinan?

For Beverly had immediately realized that her feelings for Jean-Luc were not transient. The moment she saw him standing in the doorway of Dalen's house, in her own office, she felt the same excitement that she had the first time she saw him. It did not matter that he himself looked soaked with sweat or that he was acting much more shy and uncertain than he had at the dinner party. Whatever she felt was definitely real. She closed her eyes and saw his face before her. She wanted to gaze into his eyes. She wanted to touch his face, the cleft in his chin . . . .

She took several slow, deep breaths to center herself, as Nana had taught her. With a quick glance down at her dress, as if to ensure that her body were not giving any of her thoughts away, Beverly began walking back in. If Jean-Luc was having second thoughts about her, now that he saw her as she truly looked, she would handle her disappointment. She would wall herself off from the feeling. She would be all right.

Jean-Luc rose automatically when Beverly re-entered the room.

"Here you are."

As the wet glass passed from her hand to his, their hands briefly touched. They both looked up at each other.

Beverly thought she heard a slight gasp escape him.

"Thank you," he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

She watched as the glass reached his lips.

Suddenly, he lowered the glass, his face contorted and his lips puckered.

"This isn't iced tea."

"No, I never said it was." At least, Beverly did not _think_ she had said anything about iced tea. "It's lemonade. I'm sorry. I could make you some iced tea, if you have time. I just—"

"No," he interrupted with a smile. "I actually prefer this. Thank you."

She relaxed, smiled in response.

"It's the perfect beverage on a hot day," he continued.

"I'm glad you like it." She sat in a chair opposite the couch and tried to think of something to say. She saw the book. "Did you bring a book for Dalen?"

Suddenly remembering, "No, actually I brought it for you." He set his drink down on the coffee table and picked up the book. "You had said that you enjoyed _Romeo and Juliet,_ so I thought you might like another of Shakespeare's plays." He handed her the tome, careful not to brush against her fingers.

She noted his fingers' careful retreat along the binding, which caused her no small amount of amusement. " _Much Ado About Nothing?_ What an odd title for a play, as if the playwright is warning you to lower your expectations."

"It's a comedy," Jean-Luc explained. "Very different in tone from his tragedies. Quite a light-hearted farce. I think you'll enjoy it." He smiled with the confidence of someone speaking about a topic of expertise. As he watched Beverly open the book and begin to read, however, he felt a stab of panic: why had he given her a romantic comedy? Would she think it forward of him? Would she read something into his lending it to her and be offended? Gazing openly upon her lovely face as she read, he wondered if he perhaps had thought of her as Beatrix, a beauty with a sharp wit.

Beverly made a show of perusing the book, but she found she could barely focus on the lovely language of the play with Jean-Luc sitting so close by, staring at her. Keeping calm, she stalled for a moment to think of something to say. The book smelled a bit musty, as though it had spent years in a locker at sea. This play, she thought, must mean a great deal to him, and she resolved to read it carefully.

"Thank you so much for lending me something interesting to read." Beverly looked up and caught Jean-Luc staring at her. He immediately blushed, causing her to smile.

"It's only fair that I lend you a book by one of our American authors." She rose and walked to Dalen's bookcases, which lined the room. What could compare with Shakespeare, she wondered.

"I'd be very interested in reading one of your American books."

Beverly perused the titles, feeling the pressure of her entire country's literary reputation on her shoulders. "Hm . . . have you ever read any Hawthorne?"

"No, I don't believe I have."

She pulled _The Scarlet Letter_ off the shelf. "This is considered his masterpiece."

Jean-Luc took the book with interest. As he opened it and began reading, just glancing at the contents, Beverly felt an alarm go off inside her. Hawthorne's masterpiece was about an illicit affair—why on Earth had she given that book to Jean-Luc? Would he read something into her selection? Would he think she was suggesting that the two of them embark on such a scandalous course?

"I shall read it cover to cover," Jean-Luc said, "and look forward to our next book exchange."

"That's a good idea. We can meet again in—let's see, how long will it take you to finish that book?"

"A week," Jean-Luc answered quickly.

"A week? That's a very long book."

He hefted the book, as if estimating its literary weight by assessing its physical weight. "I can read it in one week. How about you?"

Not one to back down from a challenge, Beverly immediately agreed.

"Oh, Jean-Luc, you're here!" Dalen walked out of his examination room and discovered his mid-day meal companion sitting in the library.

"If you'll excuse me," Beverly said. She stood up and walked to the other room to handle payment, or the promise thereof, from the patient.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting," Dalen said, looking between the two of them.

"No, I was just enjoying some lemonade and books with Mrs. Crusher."

"Oh, good, good. Well, if you're ready to go . . . . Beverly," Dalen turned to his assistant to let her know when to expect him back and could not believe what he was seeing.

Beverly had turned quite red but she ignored her embarrassment as she wrote a note for the patient to sign. "There you go, Mr. Cunningham," she said, "that will be two bushels of peaches and one of corn. Just make your mark here."

She looked up at Dalen and Jean-Luc with a business look on her face. "Enjoy your lunch, gentlemen," she said evenly, as she returned her attention to the patient.

"We shall."

Beverly was surprised to hear Jean-Luc's, rather than Dalen's voice answer her. She reflexively glanced up at him to find a knowing smile on his face. He bowed to her before walking out the door, followed by a broadly smiling Dalen.


	4. Chapter 4

Exactly one week later, Jean-Luc marched up the front steps of Dr. Quaice's house with a youthful exuberance he had not felt in years. Inside, Beverly met him with a relaxed smile. Since the day was cloudy and not too hot, she had set out some lemonade and pie in the back yard, at a table with wicker chairs that Jack had built for Dalen and Patricia and set up in the shade of two tall trees.

"Well, this is very nice," Jean-Luc exclaimed, making himself comfortable in one of the chairs.

"I hope you like pecan pie." Beverly cut him a slice.

"I've never tried it."

Beverly froze. She shook her head in disbelief. "Jean-Luc, how long have you been living here? I can't believe Guinan hasn't made it for you yet. This is a serious gap in your education of the American South, which I intend to close immediately."

He took the plate from her and, with her watching, tasted a piece of the pie. "Mmm," he said. Seeing her eyes on him, he felt obligated to say more, even though the rich dessert, like so many other foods in his adopted country, was not to his taste. "What an . . . extraordinary taste. Really, quite different from anything I've ever eaten."

"You don't like it, do you?" Beverly said with mock hurt. She actually found his attempt to compliment her pie humorous, but she would not let on.

Jean-Luc sighed and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Beverly, the pie is a very nice treat and I very much appreciate your making it for me. But, I prefer simple meals during the day, really."

Beverly smiled. "So do I. All right, next time, shortbread cookies it is."

Next time, he thought giddily. She wants me to come back again.

More at ease with one another, they discussed the books they had each read. As it had on that first evening they had met at dinner, the awkwardness that they initially felt when together melted into familiarity more easily than they could have accomplished if they had been thinking about it. Beverly was pleased to see herself in Beatrix and Jean-Luc believed he gained an insight into the Puritanism of America.

When the conversation finally hit a lull, Beverly reached into the grass under her chair and pulled out another book. "I thought you might enjoy reading a tale of the sea."

Jean-Luc read the jacket. " _Moby Dick._ This looks quite interesting."

In exchange, Jean-Luc gave Beverly _The Hunchback of Notre Dame._ "A French author. _Trés fascinant."_

Her use of his native tongue brought a smile to his face.

A tall young man approached them.

"Wesley!" Beverly lit up. "I'd like to introduce you to Captain Jean-Luc Picard. Captain Picard, my son Wesley."

Jean-Luc stood and firmly shook Wesley's hand. The thin youth looked a bit scared as he uttered, "Pleased to meet you, sir," impressing Jean-Luc with his manners.

"As I am pleased to meet you, Wesley."

For his part, Wesley felt partly astonished and, in huge part, intimidated. Dr. Quaice had told him about the new man in the county who had captured his mother's interest and she had coyly mentioned him as well. Wesley had strode across the yard intending to let the stranger know he would be looking out for his mother, in case the man had any improper designs on her. Now that he was standing in front of the captain, however, something about the older man silenced him.

"Why don't you join us?" Suddenly seized by the idea of having Jean-Luc become a role model for her son, Beverly gestured to the chair next to her.

"Um . . . ." Wesley looked at his mother's excited face and the modest smile on Captain Picard's face, which seemed to have drooped slightly since her invitation, and suddenly felt very awkward. "I have a lot to do. I have to run some errands for Miss Ro."

Jean-Luc's smile was revived. "Perhaps another time then."

"Yes! Wesley, the captain and I meet once a week to exchange books. You can join us next week."

"Um, okay. Um, have a good afternoon, sir. It was a pleasure to meet you." Wesley nodded and quickly retreated. He would have to talk to Dr. Quaice about this unusual man.

Jean-Luc nodded and sat back down, beginning to feel more comfortable. A bachelor, and an aging one at that, he had no idea what to say to young people. Truthfully, he had always felt uneasy around children. Watching Beverly smile at her son as he walked away, he glimpsed an insight into parenthood that he had never experienced.

"You're very proud of him, aren't you?"

"Yes. He's growing up to be such a fine young man."

"I can see that."

"Have you ever had any children?" Beverly regretted the very personal question as soon as she saw the marked change in Jean-Luc's countenance, as though a dark cloud were above him.

"Uh, no. The . . . the opportunity never presented itself." Jean-Luc had been caught off guard. He blanched at the thought of admitting his discomfort with children. More than that, looking at Beverly, he was unexpectedly gripped by the inappropriate desire to have children—with her. Perhaps it was time to leave, he thought, fidgeting. He picked up the book Beverly had given him and another he had brought.

"Oh, did you bring another book?" Seeing he was about to go, Beverly grabbed hold of an excuse to keep him there.

"Yes, I wasn't entirely sure if you would want to tackle the very lengthy Victor Hugo book or if you would prefer another of Shakespeare's plays."

"Jean-Luc, do you think I can't finish _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ in one week?"

Jean-Luc loved the expression on her face as she joked with him. "I didn't say that."

"You practically did."

She had him. Blushing, he stammered, "I, uh, well I know you can certainly read the book, if your duties allow. But, uh, to a certain extent, you have no control over the community's need for medical, uh, care . . . ."

The way that Jean-Luc was easily rattled, his confidence and knowledge melting into innocent embarrassment, endeared him to Beverly. She sighed and decided to ease up on him.

"Which play is that?"

" _A Midsummer Night's Dream._ Have you read it?"

"No, I haven't. Why don't you leave it here and I'll read it after I finish _The Hunchback."_

It was Jean-Luc's turn to claim the advantage. "If you're going to be that busy reading all week, I certainly hope that I don't fall off a horse in the next several days."

"Very funny. If you do injure yourself, I promise I'll try very hard to pull myself away from my reading."

They chatted amiably for a while longer, then reached a break in the conversation. Worried that he might leave, Beverly was struck by inspiration. "I know! Jean-Luc, why don't you read some of the play?"

"What?"

" _A Midsummer Nights' Dream._ Why don't you read it aloud?"

The idea intrigued Jean-Luc. Although he had never read Shakespeare out loud to another person, it seemed a very intimate thing to do, as infatuated as he was with the language. Truthfully, he was glad for an excuse to linger in Beverly's company. He looked into her eyes, dancing and merry. He returned her smile, beguiling and inviting. He would have done anything she asked of him.

"Very well." He opened the book. "Act I, scene I."

. . .

Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind.

And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste—

Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.

And therefore is Love said to be a child,

Because in choice he is so oft beguiled.

As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,

So the boy Love is perjured everywhere.

. . .

Although she had noticed his powerful baritone voice the evening they had met, Beverly had never felt quite so aroused by it as when he began to read the rich words of the Bard. A perfect marriage of written word and sonorous speech, Jean-Luc's reading led her into its arms and held her close as it danced with her. Listening to him, she felt privy to a part of his soul, laid bare only for her to see. She vowed to take it to her breast and keep it safe.

Jean-Luc felt increasingly intoxicated as he read to Beverly. Having begun quietly, unsure, his voice increased in volume and confidence as he continued. The magical words of his favorite author empowered him and he felt that he was sharing some very private part of himself with Beverly and, more so, that he wanted to share it with her.

Their delicate relationship blossomed through their weekly book exchanges and the occasional dinner at the Picard residence. Marie and Dalen enjoyed the unexpected happiness of those close to them, but kept their romance secret. Marie knew that her brother-in-law was a very private person. Dalen simply wanted to protect Beverly from the gossiping hens of the county.

One sultry day, the four of them embarked on a three-hour carriage ride to see a brass band concert. Jean-Luc and Beverly sat next to each other in front, not at all self-conscious, chatting as amiably as old friends. From the back seat, Marie and Dalen could not see their companions occasionally holding one another's hands, physical contact that sparked electricity through each of them. The glances and smiles they shared were full of affection.

Guinan had packed a picnic lunch that they spread out on a blanket on the lawn before the concert. While Jean-Luc could not hide his unflattering opinion of the American composers, he did enjoy the European waltzes and light classics. The four of them discussed the music knowledgably and felt its soothing effect. On the way home in the carriage, Beverly leaned against Jean-Luc's shoulder and soon fell asleep. Her contented sighs hinted at sweet dreams.

Jean-Luc reflected that, apart from his early ocean voyages, many years hence, he had never felt more at peace in his entire life.

* * *

Beverly enjoyed sewing and she liked spending time with Marie Picard and Deanna Troi. But for those two reasons, she wondered why she attended the Ladies Auxiliary Sewing Circle. The rest of the women talked about things that did not interest her, such as idle gossip, and some of them frankly grated on her.

It was common for the women with the strongest personalities and weakest personal censors to dominate the conversation, Lwaxanna Troi being among the foremost of these. Alynna Nechayev and Vash DeLancie tended to sneakily hijack the discussion and change the atmosphere of the group. Kate Pulaski and Nella Darren were quieter and rarely brought up a topic that interested Beverly, although Nella did share Beverly's love of music. Ro Laren did not always attend, but even when she did, she was aloof. When she was absent, the others talked about her.

As it happened, the Thursday after Dalen's and her trip to the symphony with the Picards, Marie sent her regrets, in a short note stating that she had business to attend to related to Robert's estate and the plantation. Some of the women considered this a happy coincidence as it enabled them to sink their claws into Marie's newly arrived brother-in-law.

"Have you all met Captain Jean-Luc Picard?" Lwaxanna started off.

All of the women, except Ro, who shook her head, and Beverly, who remained silent, indicated they had. Deanna gave Beverly a curious look.

"Well, I found him quite standoffish," Kate said. "Not nearly as friendly and personable as his brother was, may he rest in peace. In fact, I found him to be rather rude or, at best, ill-at-ease. I assumed he was well-bred, but I didn't see much evidence of it."

"Yes, yes, he's terribly awkward, I'm afraid," Lwaxanna commiserated. "Apart from the expected pleasantries, he didn't converse much."

"But, he is cute," Vash purred. She looked around the circle for reactions. Alynna kept her poker face, but Nella blushed. Kate looked slightly alarmed, as though worried at the thought that she might have competition. Deanna smirked.

"Oh, yes." Lwaxanna threaded a needle as she talked. "He's very handsome and he definitely has a European _savoir faire_."

"What did you think of him, Deanna?" Vash asked pointedly. "As a single woman, I know you must have paid a call on him, with your mother, of course."

"Of course." Deanna was nonplussed. Her confidence always impressed Beverly. "He showed good manners, in my opinion, but he did give the impression that he didn't want to spend much time with us." She paused to complete a stitch. "Overall, I thought Captain Picard was very polite, somewhat handsome, and . . . fatherly." She gave Vash a look that should have ended her line of inquiry.

It did not. "Don't tell me you're not interested in him. A rich landowner, with a gorgeous house. A dashing French naval captain who looks more virile than his years would suggest."

"Vash, please!" Kate was the one blushing now.

"I agree!" Exasperated, Lwaxanna set her sewing on her lap. "I told Deanna, if he's not interested in me, then he's simply _got_ to be attracted to her. My daughter has an otherworldly beauty. I thought for sure . . . ." She sighed in frustration.

"From my brief conversation with him, I gathered that he seems much more interested in the business of the plantation than in women," Alynna observed without judgment. It occurred to Beverly that Alynna might find that trait attractive.

"What about you, Nella?" Vash turned her critical gaze to the other single woman known to be seeking a husband.

Nella promptly stabbed herself with a needle. "I, oh, uh, I did meet the captain," she flustered. "He was very nice. Well, I only spoke with him for a short time. He had some work to do." The women looked at her expectantly. "But he didn't seem interested in me."

"Hmm," Vash mused, "that is interesting. All our fine ladies turned out to meet the captain but he didn't bite." Kate blanched at the metaphor. "What about you, Laren Ro? Did you go to meet your neighbor?"

Without lifting her eyes from her work, Ro answered in a bored tone. "Since I live near him, I'm not in any particular hurry. I thought I'd wait until the carriage traffic died down some." She said the last with a sideways glance at her companions.

Her slightly veiled insult did not offend Vash. "You're never in a hurry to meet single gentlemen, it seems."

"No, I'm not," Miss Ro answered simply, continuing her work.

"Better be careful, or you'll end up a spinster like Beverly."

"Well, if I do, I hope that I'm as beautiful and as good a seamstress as Beverly." At Ro's remark, all eyes turned to the ruffle that Beverly was attaching to a dress. Ro looked up to catch her attention. "You always do such fine, delicate work with a needle. It's very impressive."

"Thank you," Beverly said simply, looking at her admirer a second longer than necessary. Although she did not know Miss Ro well, and the biracial woman was sometimes abrasive, Beverly liked how she did not let herself be bullied. She hoped that the younger woman saw her gratitude for deflecting Vash's insult in that look.

"It does seem odd, though, that a man like that, so attractive and wealthy, never married," Lwaxanna said.

"Mother, don't forget, he was at sea for many years," Deanna commented.

Vash smiled. "So, there _were_ women—"

"Vash, please!" Kate huffed.

"Undoubtedly," Alynna contributed.

"We don't know that." Nella sounded offended on Jean-Luc's behalf. Everyone looked at her. "Well, we don't. We don't know what he did while he was in the French navy."

This remark elicited a rare smile from Alynna. Vash laughed outright.

"Oh, dear," Lwaxanna patted Nella's wrist, "you're so adorably naïve."

"I think that means we do know," Ro said.

"Maybe so, but we don't have to talk about it!" Kate threw her sewing violently into her lap.

After a pause, all the women laughed.

"Well, I can't wait to see who he ends up with in our little county." Vash closed out the subject of Captain Picard and the ladies went on to discuss other people.

Beverly breathed a silent sigh of relief. Eyes down, she noted that none of the women included her in their speculation, not even Vash, as she sized up the competition. Apparently, she was viewed as an incurable "spinster" by the gentle folk of the county. As she sewed, she reflected that she could not really blame anyone for classifying her that way. She had turned away so many suitors when she was younger that local men no longer bothered to woo her. Occasional visitors who needed medical attention might express an interest, but she avoided travelers. She had not intended to remain alone the rest of her days, but she had never found a man whom she found attractive physically and intellectually.

Until she met Jean-Luc Picard. The way the women described him, he was some kind of uncouth, socially awkward woman-hater. Her experiences with him could not have been more different. What did it mean? She did not dare believe that she was special to him, although that was her secret hope, a hope buried so deeply within her that she scarcely dare admit it to herself. She had no idea what it would be like to be with a man again and the thought terrified her as much as it intrigued her.

Jean-Luc. She felt her body grow warm at the mere thought of him. Seating her at the table. Watching her during dinner. Speaking French. Talking about his passions, the sea and stars, literature and archaeology. Touching her hand on the lemonade glass. Reading to her in her backyard. Kissing her hand. Holding her hand in the carriage. Providing a strong shoulder for her to lean, and sleep, on. Even without a looking glass, she sensed her cheeks and neck had gotten very pink. The other women chatted away, not noticing.

A moment later, Beverly ventured a look up and saw Deanna staring at her.

* * *

"Mother, are those the invitations?"

"Yes, little one." Lwaxanna sat at her desk, wiggling a colorful feather pen as she finished her afternoon's task. "I'm just writing the last one. I'm going to invite Miss Ro to be courteous, although I'm sure she won't come."

Deanna sat down on a chaise and sifted through the envelopes bearing her mother's calligraphy. "I don't see one here for Beverly Crusher."

"Oh, Beverly's a lovely woman, but you know she doesn't like to attend these things," Lwaxanna said without looking up. "She always seems so uncomfortable when the men try to seek her favor. I think it's kinder to not invite her."

"That's thoughtful of you—"

"I know."

"—but I think that we should invite Beverly. She's a friend of mine, after all, and this will give me a chance to spend some time with her."

Lwaxanna sat up and turned to her daughter. "Little one, I'm not having this barbecue so you can socialize with your lady friends. I'm having it so that you can find a _man._ Preferably, a French man with a large plantation."

Deanna sighed loudly.

* * *

"Oh, how nice!" Marie exclaimed as she read the invitation on the verandah.

"Mm, what's that?" Poring over the legal documents J.P. Hanson had delivered that morning, Jean-Luc barely listened to his sister-in-law.

"We're invited to a barbecue."

The strange word caught his attention. "What is a bar-be-cue?" He asked without looking up.

Marie smiled. "It's a party, an all-day event. We eat first, plenty of pork and chicken cooked on the spit over the barbecue pit. Then the ladies nap while the men congregate in the smoking parlor for drinks and cigars, and afterward, there's a ball, with dancing. Of course, as I've been in mourning, I haven't attended any social events this season."

Marie's description sounded entirely unappealing to Jean-Luc, from the unappetizing food to the threat of dancing. He wondered if he had fulfilled his social obligations by meeting with all the county residents already. "Marie, I don't know if I would want to attend." He tried to raise the topic gingerly.

"Oh, you have to."

"I do? Why?"

"It's being held in your honor."

 _Merde,_ Jean-Luc thought, the content of the legal papers in front of him suddenly leaving his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

Clothed overly warmly in her black dress but enjoying herself nevertheless, Marie turned and found herself face to face with an uncomfortable-looking Laren Ro. Her reclusive neighbor technically went by the name of Ro Laren, in the Chinese custom, but folks in the county never seemed to remember that right.

"Hello, Mrs. Picard," Miss Ro said hesitantly.

"Why, hello, Miss Ro." Marie was the picture of equanimity. "I don't usually see you at barbecues. What a nice surprise."

"Yes, ma'am, I don't often come to these." Ro hated feeling intimidated by Marie Picard. She had long ceased going to the social events of the prominent families of the county because the people made her feel so out of place. But, today she had a mission and it began with the small, regal woman before her. Ro truly liked Marie, although she knew the two had practically nothing in common. The Picards had always been good neighbors and Marie had always seemed quite pleasant whenever Ro saw her. "Mrs. Picard, I wanted to convey my condolences on your loss. I know I'm unforgivably late in expressing this . . . ."

Marie could not bear to see the young woman suffer. Her own loss so fresh in her life, she could sympathize with the pain Miss Ro must have felt seeing her father murdered, losing her mother so soon afterward, then being consigned to live the rest of her life without her loved ones. Marie took her hands. "Thank you so much for the condolences. Please don't give a thought to the confines of etiquette. The sentiment you express is far more important than how or when you do so. I appreciate it very much."

Ro looked immediately relieved. She struggled for a bit, searching for another pleasantry, as required by etiquette. "You look very well," she said, finally.

"Why, thank you. It's very kind of you to say."

"How are you managing everything now? I know there's a great deal of work involved in running a plantation."

To Ro's further relief, Marie seemed to interpret her probing as an offer of help. "Oh, I could never manage the way that you do, dear. You are a monument to female ingenuity. Thank you so much for asking, but my brother-in-law has come to stay with me to take care of things."

"Oh?" Ro feigned ignorance, hoping that Marie would assume her cloistered lifestyle would have kept her from hearing about the most talked-about arrival in the county since . . . since Marie and Robert.

"Yes, Robert's younger brother," Marie answered. "You should meet him. You are our neighbor, after all."

"Of course." Ro tried to emulate the smiles of the other young women, a mixture of coquette and innocence, but she feared that her expression only came across as phony. Marie was leading her right to Jean-Luc Picard without her having to suggest it. Her plan was working better than she could have imagined.

Marie approached a balding, stiff-looking man and tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse, me, Jean-Luc," she said to the small group of men that had been conversing. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Jean-Luc turned and Ro thought she saw a look of disappointment as his eyes befell her. "Jean-Luc, this is our neighbor, Miss Laren Ro. Miss Ro, my brother-in-law, Captain Jean-Luc Picard."

As Jean-Luc gave a slight bow, Ro for a moment did not know what to do. "Captain?" She asked to hide her confusion.

Jean-Luc seemed a bit embarrassed. "I am a retired Captain in the French navy," he explained.

"Oh, will you both excuse me?" Marie walked away in response to Lwaxanna's frantic waving to her. Ro was certain that she saw a look of concern, bordering on panic, on Jean-Luc's face. Never confident of her ability to read these people, Ro made a snap decision to trust her information and her source.

"Captain," she began, "I'm pleased to meet you. You come highly recommended."

The statement had the intended effect. "Oh?" Jean-Luc asked, an eyebrow raised. "By whom?" He was honestly at a loss for any reference he may have had with the unusual-looking woman standing before him. From her awkward posture and the nervous way she twirled a handkerchief in her hands, she appeared to be more ill-at-ease at this event then he did himself. Although she was a beautiful, even exotic, young woman, none of the men in the room were even looking at her, much less approaching her.

"By Guinan."

Jean-Luc was thunderstruck. Clearly this woman _was_ different from the other Southern belles. "Well, a revered authority indeed."

"Indeed." Ro glanced around nervously and Jean-Luc inferred that she had more to say to him that she did not want the gossips, female and male, to overhear.

"Miss Ro," he suggested, "as we are neighbors and we have much to talk about, would you eat barbecue with me?" He was fairly sure that he had correctly used the local vernacular, and that his young neighbor would forgive any lapses.

She looked at him as though he had just rescued her from prison. "Why, yes, I'd like to, Captain."

They felt pairs of eyes follow them across the room and out the door. Jean-Luc obtained two plates of food and linen napkins, then followed Ro, who led him out of earshot but within eyesight of the other guests. Once they were seated on a bench in a corner of Lwaxanna's extensive garden, she exhaled.

"Thank you," she said. "This was an excellent idea."

Jean-Luc smirked. "Yes, well, I have been known to have those occasionally, though, far fewer of them recently."

"That's not what I heard."

Jean-Luc looked up from his forkful of potato salad. "Why don't you tell me what you've heard? And why you are so anxious to talk with me?"

Ro almost turned away from the man's demanding glare. She could see why the women of the sewing circle were so attracted to him. Maintaining eye contact, she spoke in an even voice, not too loudly. "I heard that you have beliefs similar to mine about the appalling practice of all these fine Christian people of treating human beings that don't look like them as property."

Jean-Luc straightened. This was perhaps the last thing he had expected anyone at the barbecue, in the middle of a sunny, languid summer day, amidst food prepared and served by slaves, to say to him. He knew this woman's reputation as a loner and, feeling a kindred spirit, he made a quick decision to trust her. "Yes, I do."

"Would you like to do something about it?"

Given his lawyer's insistence that there was nothing he could do, Jean-Luc was intrigued. "What do you propose?"

"I do more than propose action, Captain," Ro said, trapping him in her own intense stare. "I help people escape. My property is part of a secret network of safe havens on a route leading north. There are others like me, who help runaways move in the shadows toward freedom. We're always looking for help."

Before Jean-Luc could respond, a none-too-subtle throat-clearing interrupted. The two of them looked up to see Deanna entering the garden with two glasses of iced tea. She walked over to them.

"Captain, Miss Ro. My thoughtful mother sent me over here to bring you some refreshments and to eavesdrop on your conversation," Deanna said with a smile. She handed them each one of the glasses. "Now, were you discussing the weather or the price of cotton?"

While Jean-Luc sat dumbstruck, Miss Ro answered immediately. "Actually, we were just admiring your mother's flowers. I was telling the Captain how Lwaxanna Troi wins awards at the garden show every year."

"Oh, does she?" Jean-Luc asked, catching on quickly.

"Have you seen her lady's slipper?" Ro pointed to a plant with long thin stems and dangling pink flowers that did resemble ballet slippers, Jean-Luc noted.

Deanna smiled conspiratorially. "Why, thank you, I'll be sure to pass along the compliment." With a slight curtsey, she turned and left.

Jean-Luc marveled at the departing woman's serene diplomacy. "Are you friends with Miss Troi?" He asked, turning to his companion.

"I'm not friends with anyone," Ro answered. She ate a forkful of food, to appear more casual. Jean-Luc followed her lead. "But everyone likes Deanna."

Chastened by the reminder that they were being watched, they continued to talk while they ate. "I have contacts south of here who bring people up. There's a tunnel—"

"A tunnel?"

"Yes, constructed by your Mr. Soong. He's quite an engineer. It begins on my property, runs under the next and comes out near Hartwell Lake. From there, a boatman takes them to South Carolina. We have contacts in North Carolina, Virginia, Baltimore and in the North. We help people escape all the way into Canada if they want."

Jean-Luc was astounded. Yet, one thing didn't quite sit with him. "Miss Ro, my information is second-hand, but I was told that you are the proprietress of a large planation run by slaves."

"Oh, I inherited the planation," she explained, "but I freed the slaves. Many of them left, but many stayed to work for me, picking cotton and helping me run our stop on the underground railroad. They're paid for their labor and I make sure we sell enough cotton to keep us in business."

 _This is extraordinary!_ Jean-Luc thought. Still . . . . "I was advised that such a business model would not work. That the income from a wage-paying enterprise would not sustain large estates such as ours."

"It doesn't really." Ro looked up from her plate. "I'm slowly going broke. But I don't see any other choice here. If I can do something to free human beings unjustly imprisoned, I'm going to do it. My question to you, Captain, is: will you help me?"

Jean-Luc needed no time to consider his answer. To appear as though he were having a friendly, innocuous chat with a lady of the South, he sipped his iced tea, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and smiled. "I certainly will."

* * *

"Oh, I don't believe that for one second!" Lwaxanna scoffed at her daughter's report, as a house slave, a twelve-year old girl, fanned her. She was seated, along with her friends, on the verandah of her large house, among decorative plants and statuary. "Nella heard _him_ ask _her_ to eat barbecue! With all the women in the county to choose from, he goes after Laren Ro? It doesn't make any sense."

Next to her, Alynna set down her iced tea and motioned her own fan bearer closer. "It makes perfect sense. The Ro property adjoins the Picard lands. If they joined the two, they could increase production and become the wealthiest land owners in three counties."

Lwaxanna sighed. "Is that all you ever think about, wealth?"

"Lwaxanna, dear, wealth is all that anyone ever thinks about." Alynna wished Vash were there to confirm her belief, but the younger woman was mingling through the crowd of guests.

Deanna sat down and took a sip of iced tea.

"Oh, yes, little one, cool off. You were out there in the hot sun. But, you can't stay here with us. You have to go out on to the yard and let the men see you. Reg Barclay was wandering around earlier. I know he likes you."

"Mother—"

"I don't believe it." At Kate's gasp and surprising words, the group of women looked up to see Dr. Dalen Quaice assisting Beverly Crusher down from his carriage.

The women—everyone in the county, really—were accustomed to seeing Beverly with her hair in a sensible bow, wearing plain, even dowdy, dresses of solid colors with high necks and long sleeves. Today, she seemed transformed into a completely different woman. Her hair was softly curled and styled in a swirl above and behind her head, with plenty left to fall on to her shoulders, . . . which were bare. The ruffle she had expertly sewn topped a blue dress the color of her eyes. Her appearance belied her age and attracted looks from gentlemen and ladies all over the yard.

"She's beautiful," Nella breathed, somewhat in shock.

Deanna smiled. She had a feeling she knew what this was about.

Alynna signaled to the young girl holding a fan over her head. "You, run around the yard and find Mrs. DeLancie and tell her Mrs. Nechayev requests her presence on the veranda. Hurry." The girl sped off.

"Oh, I'll get you another one," Lwaxanna turned to her butler, who had been standing by just in case. "Holm, get one of the other girls to come and fan Mrs. Nechayev, will you."

The tall thin man nodded and silently left to do her bidding.


	6. Chapter 6

On their walk back from the garden, Miss Ro instructed Jean-Luc to hold out his arm so that she could take it. "I'm afraid I'm not very flirtatious, but we have to try to look the part."

"Agreed." Jean-Luc offered her what he hoped was a friendly smile.

His gesture evoked a genuine smile from Ro. "You're not very good at flirting either, are you?"

"Oh," he said, disappointed, "is it that obvious?"

"Maybe we'll look alike, then," she offered. "Don't forget we'll have to dance later."

"Of course." His feelings for that particular form of social intercourse were obvious on his face, for anyone who happened to be looking.

"Come on!" Ro admonished, with a tug at his arm. "You're supposed to be wooing me. Can't you look a little happier?"

He stopped walking and turned to her with a truly affectionate smile. "You're right. I have every reason to smile. I've just met the only person in this entire world who feels the way that I do and is doing something to address the horrible injustice of slavery that stains every inch of society here. I've dedicated my life to my duty, to doing and defending what is right. I'm very happy to be joining your cause, young lady."

Ro smiled back at him. Something about him, she now realized, reminded her of her father. His certainty and confidence and, most of all, his words. "Defending what it right." Her father, who had advocated not only for freeing the slaves, but for returning land to the native peoples, could have said the very same words.

The moment passed and the two of them resumed their walk across the yard. Young people walked about laughing. Married women clumped together and men gathered near the barbecue pit, talking loudly about politics and commerce. Jean-Luc scanned the people for observers and saw Will Riker, standing next to a shorter, gray-haired man, but looking right at him. Jean-Luc hoped that Will did not have designs on Miss Ro. Their subterfuge would require him to appear to be calling on her and he did not want to hurt Will's feelings.

As his eyes looked over the veranda, he saw a sight that made him abruptly stop walking. His stopping nearly caused Ro to trip, but he did not notice.

After catching her balance again, Ro followed his gaze. She leaned close and spoke into his ear. "I'm not friends with Beverly Crusher either, but I do admire her."

"Oh?" He was listening, but his eyes never left Beverly.

"I think I should warn you, though, that she turns down _all_ male advances. _All_ of them."

"Really?" Jean-Luc turned to look at her, clearly worried.

"Beverly has a very sharp tongue, but she only uses it to lash out at men who show her the least bit of interest. She shuts them down pretty quickly, too, usually right after, 'good day, Mrs. Crusher.' People say she hasn't been interested in a man since her husband died."

Jean-Luc knew that his face no longer wore its mask of courtship but he could not help it. Miss Ro was describing a very different woman than the Beverly he had met and begun to know. He was not sure what to make of that incongruence, nor was he sure of how to proceed with his sham courtship in the presence of the woman he believed he truly wished to court. What he was about to propose was, he had no doubt, foolish, but he felt compelled to throw caution to the wind.

He looked at Ro. "Would it be very roguish of me to talk to another woman now that we've eaten barbecue together?"

Ro regarded him. What kind of man was he, this Frenchman who had just pledged to help fugitive slaves escape? This foreign military man who apparently harbored a romantic streak that blinded him to both social morés and the threat of certain failure? She wondered if he was as sensible as she had first thought him. The last thing she needed was someone careless, who would become more of a liability than an asset to her cause. She decided to test him.

"It wouldn't speak well of you, no, but it's not unheard of. Of course, now that I've seen you look at another woman, I have to play hard to get." She retrieved her arm, then playfully swatted his forearm. "After Beverly shoots you down, you can come looking for me, but I won't be so easy to win back."

He gave her a quizzical look. "You're so certain that she'll reject me?"

"I am." Ro started to walk toward the house, then turned back. "But, if by some miracle, you can get her to dance, try to pick up a few pointers. She's supposed to be the best dancer in the county and you and I will need the advice. We'll have to have the last dance together."

With that she was gone, leaving Jean-Luc to look after her in sincere wonderment. To the many onlookers, he doubtlessly looked as confused as he felt.

* * *

Standing next to her friend, Deanna fretted terribly about Beverly's feelings. "Would you like something to eat, Beverly? Something to drink?"

Beverly stood transfixed, watching Jean-Luc Picard watch Ro Laren. "No, I don't think so."

Jean-Luc started walking toward them.

A new fear occurred to Deanna: Beverly had been out of the social scene for so long, maybe she had forgotten how to behave. Maybe she did not realize that when one sees the man she likes walking with another woman, the appropriate course of action is to treat him like a cockroach until he begs forgiveness and suffers sufficiently.

"Please, come into the house with me for a moment," Deanna begged.

Beverly's eyes stayed on Jean-Luc. "Deanna, may I borrow your parasol?"

"What? Yes, of course. But, Beverly—"

Deanna watched helplessly as Beverly stepped down off the veranda—another serious breach of protocol, walking toward the man instead of making him come to you—and moved gracefully across the lawn.

" _Very_ interesting," Vash said, suddenly at Deanna's elbow. "I had absolutely no idea."

Too late, Deanna realized that Beverly had not felt upset, as she would have, but angry.

"Oh, dear."

* * *

Jean-Luc felt the now familiar flutter of his heart as Beverly approached. He bowed to her. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Crusher. May I say, you look very beautiful today."

When his eyes returned to her face, instead of the warmth he expected to find, he saw fire. "Good afternoon, Captain, I hope I didn't interrupt you."

His breath caught as he heard the ice in her tone. He had to correct his misstep immediately. "I hope you didn't misinterpret my talk with Miss Ro. She's my neighbor, you see, and I—"

Beverly opened the parasol and began walking, past him in the direction of the garden and the gazebo.

He had no choice but to follow her.

* * *

"Oh, she's good," Vash said in an admiring voice, from her vantage point on the veranda.

"Beverly?" Nella asked, incredulously.

"We're going to lose them when they pass the gazebo," Kate added.

* * *

Just past the gazebo, Beverly spoke as she stepped on a small bridge that crossed a creek on the Troi property.

"Go on," she said, "you were explaining why you were walking arm-in-arm with Miss Ro out of the garden."

Jean-Luc swallowed and began again. "Yes, well, it seems there's a . . . dispute, over the border of my property and Miss Ro's land. She advised me of this just now and we were discussing how to resolve it, when I—"

Beverly twirled at him suddenly. "For a man of the world, you are a terrible liar."

"When I saw you," he finished.

He caught her eyes. The look on his face, pleading and desperate, quieted her.

"When I saw you, I couldn't think of anything, anyone else." Beverly saw the sincerity in his eyes. "I-I couldn't bear it if you were angry with me. Please accept my apology for making you uncomfortable."

This man, whose deep voice always sounded so strong, so masculine and self-assured, but now sounded close to despair. Beverly was astonished. She felt tears welling up in her eyes and a lump forming in her throat. She turned away from him, strategically placing the parasol between them.

But Jean-Luc had seen enough to know that her icy façade was melting. Clearly, he had hurt her feelings and, while he sorely regretted that, he also felt excitement that she _had_ those feelings for him.

Beverly felt the tears on her face and choked a bit as she tried to speak. "Jean-Luc, I don't . . . I don't play games. Not like the other women." She closed her eyes, willing them to stop watering. Her tears had caught her by surprise. Accustomed to being in control when speaking to men, Beverly was alarmed to find herself so vulnerable, so weak before him.

Jean-Luc took a cautious step closer to her. _If only I could touch her,_ he thought as he devoured the sight of her bare shoulder above her dress ruffle. "I know that you don't, Beverly. I'm not playing games with you." Many years and many miles had passed in his life since he had spoken such words. He felt pathetically out of practice, and entirely vulnerable, but he had to say them.

"I very much hope that you will not think this too forward of me, and I know that we don't know each other very well, but . . . ." He paused, praying that she would move the ridiculous small umbrella out of his face so that he could tell her properly.

She did.

Slowly turning to face him, Beverly felt her nervous hands shake. She wanted so much to trust him, to believe that he felt about her the way she felt about him. With her emotions streaming uncontrolled down her cheeks, she felt naked.

All sense and sanity departed from Jean-Luc as he beheld Beverly. Her beauty, her strength and her frailty. Looking into her wet, suffering face, at the woman he had come to know so well, he vowed to do anything under the sun to take away the pain he had caused her.

"I-I've never felt this way about anyone before. Since the moment I first met you . . . . I think about you every day. I long to see you. I live for the days when we meet. I feel more alive than I ever have, every moment that we spend together, and . . . I think . . . I may be in love with you."

There. He had said it. This man who moved her the way no one ever had now stood before her a supplicant, begging her to respond. His deep, resonant voice, nevertheless soft and dripping with passion. His strong features softened by his admission, his pleading. Could she trust him? Could she risk her heart? It had been so long since she had exposed herself to the possibility of love, or hurt.

"Jean-Luc," she whispered his name, then suddenly felt very light-headed. "I—" She could not continue, but she did not know why. Looking into his face, she saw him waiting desperately for her next words. She wanted to say something to him, but lost the thought.

"Beverly!"

Jean-Luc caught her before she fell to the ground in a faint. He collapsed the hoops of her skirt together in one arm and scooped her up with both his arms. Carrying her toward the house, his concern for her well-being far outweighed the joy he would otherwise have felt at holding her.

"Oh, my heavens!" Lwaxanna was the first to spot him as he hurried up the lawn past the gazebo. "Holm, get the smelling salts and a cold compress."

Deanna and Kate rushed toward Jean-Luc. "What happened?" The former asked.

Once he was close enough that he did not have to shout, Jean-Luc answered. "She fainted."

Kate put a hand on Beverly's cheek. "No wonder, she's hot and clammy." She lifted Beverly's right arm, which had been dangling, on to her stomach. "Take her upstairs right away. Lwaxanna will show you where to set her down."

With a nod, Jean-Luc continued in the direction Kate pointed. Deanna followed.

Seeing him approach, Will Riker crossed the lawn. "Captain, do you need any help?"

"No."

Will watched the older man easily carry Beverly Crusher into the house and bound the staircase as though he were carrying a light pile of cotton.

"That man is in good physical condition." Will started at his father's voice beside him.

"I suppose so," Will said.

"That's good," Kyle Riker said, with a pat on his son's shoulder. "The South is going to need men like him."


	7. Chapter 7

"Here, have some water."

Beverly awoke to Deanna's soothing voice. She felt something cold on her forehead. She opened her eyes and found herself lying on a bed, in a dim, shuttered bedroom. On the far side of the bed, a young girl moved a large palm leaf back and forth to create a slight breeze. Deanna sat beside her, holding a glass of water.

"What?" Beverly managed.

Deanna smiled. "Do you remember fainting?"

Beverly closed her eyes. "Ooooh, I did?"

"I'm afraid so. Dr. Quaice said to give you plenty of water when you came to."

With help, Beverly sat up enough to drink. She noticed that she wasn't wearing her dress. Both Deanna and she were clad in their undergarments only. Naptime.

Beverly sighed. "This must be the most embarrassing day of my life."

"Oh, I don't know about that. Unless you're embarrassed that you missed it."

Despite her friend's playful tone, Beverly was worried. "Missed what?"

"Well, you fainted by the creek behind the gazebo, quite a distance away."

Beverly remembered purposely moving out of eyesight of the busybodies on the veranda.

"And you were carried all the way from the creek up to this bed."

"Carried?"

"By Captain Picard."

"By . . . ?"

Deanna nodded.

"Oooooh."

"I kept hoping you would wake up while you were in his arms. He was magnificent. He practically ran up the stairs with you and we had to shoo him out of here. He looked very worried about you."

Beverly rolled on to her stomach and put a pillow over her head. "I'm not leaving this room. I'm staying here until everyone goes home."

At first, Deanna thought her friend was playing, like a teenager with a crush. But when Beverly stayed in that position without saying anything more, Deanna felt that something was wrong.

"Beverly, what is it?" No answer. "Beverly, I know that you feel something for the captain."

 _How could she understand_ what _I feel for him?_ Beverly thought. _How could she know that I want to be with him all the time, that he makes me feel more like myself than I ever feel when I'm alone. That I desire something much more from him . . . ._

Deanna ventured a guess. "Is this about Miss Ro?"

 _How can I explain that I'm terrified of my feelings for him? That I'm afraid to love someone so much?_ _Because if I should lose him . . . ._

"You don't have to keep it all inside you, you know. You've been a friend to me when I needed you. Why won't you let me be a friend to you now?"

The rational part of Beverly did not have an answer for that. Her emotional side tried to hold up its defenses, but Deanna was skilled at bringing them down.

"I'm scared, Deanna."

"Scared to tell me?"

She pulled her head out from under the pillow. "Scared of the way I feel. The way I feel about him."

Deanna saw panic in Beverly's face. How had the older woman become so afraid to feel love? She took Beverly's hand. "Beverly, I know I'm not as experienced in these matters as you are, but from what I know of affairs of the heart, one of the biggest difficulties is falling in love with someone who loves you back. From what I saw today, you certainly don't have that difficulty.

"Jean-Luc Picard loves you."

The whiskey seemed to help. Jean-Luc drank it down rather quickly and allowed Q to pour him another glass.

"You would have been the envy of half the men in this room just for getting Beverly Crusher to _talk_ to you," Q was saying. "The fact that you made her faint practically elevates you to godlike status."

"Oh, it was the heat," Dalen Quaice sidled up to the bar and scoffed. "Hot as blazes out there and those women walking around all corseted up. I'm surprised they didn't all faint today."

Q looked miffed at the interruption. Seeing that the doctor intended to continue his intrusion, Q left with a flash of raised eyebrows, as if to indicate he was not through with Jean-Luc yet.

"How is she?" Jean-Luc asked urgently.

"She'll be perfectly fine," Dalen said. "It was mostly due to the heat."

Jean-Luc was relieved to hear that Beverly would be all right, and yet . . . . "Mostly? Is there something else?" Was she ill?

Dalen poured himself a glass of whiskey and looked into the captain's worried face. It was time, he decided, that the two of them had a little talk. "Jean-Luc, are you really oblivious to the effect you've had on Beverly?"

"I'm not sure I know what you mean." Jean-Luc dared to hope, however, that he knew exactly what Dalen meant.

"I've known Beverly Crusher since she was a young newlywed. She's a strong woman, but sensitive." Dalen gripped Jean-Luc's arm tightly. "I love her like a daughter. After Jack died, she was in terrible pain. She's been very lonely for all these years. I can't tell you how happy I am to see her take an interest in you, and you in her. But, I don't want to see her get hurt."

It was true. She did care for him. Even better, Jean-Luc had now received the blessing of her surrogate father. Before he could rejoice or respond, a broad-shouldered, well-dressed man with bushy eyebrows inserted himself between Jean-Luc and Dalen.

"Captain Picard, isn't it?" He extended his hand. "I'm Kyle Riker, pleased to make your acquaintance."

"The feeling is mutual," Jean-Luc responded automatically.

"I had been hoping to meet you to extend my condolences on the loss of your brother. Robert was well-respected here, a very big figure in our community."

"Thank you, Senator Riker, I appreciate the sentiment. I hope I can at least in some way fill Robert's shoes."

Kyle appeared to enjoy the newcomer's compliment—using his title. "I'm sure you'll do well. I hear you're a former navy man?"

"Yes, I was a ship's captain in the French navy for many years."

"And, of course," Kyle let out a short laugh, as he elbowed an uncomfortable Dalen, "we know how strong and physically sound you are, eh, Doctor?"

Dalen looked as though the last thing in the world he wanted to do was talk with Kyle. But, like Jean-Luc, he saw the need to stroke the man's ego. "How about that?" He said with a friendly smile.

"You know, we may very well need a man like you, Captain, and soon," Kyle continued. "I don't know how closely you've been following the politics of our nation, but you should pay attention. What happens in Washington, D.C. may have a very large impact on your property."

"Oh, really?" Jean-Luc feigned ignorance.

Kyle adopted a gravely serious demeanor. "There are organized forces at work in the North that mean to strip us all of our livelihoods. We've been working for an honorable solution for some time," he spoke as though he personally had been involved, although, as a state senator, Jean-Luc was fairly certain he had not been, "but a peaceful resolution is becoming increasingly unlikely."

"Where do you see this conflict leading?"

"To war, gentlemen, to civil war."

Jean-Luc was perplexed. "Surely, Mr. Riker, you don't believe that the American people will take up arms against each other."

"I believe, sir," Kyle spoke like an orator on the campaign trail, "that the Yankee devils have no honor whatsoever and wouldn't hesitate to fight us to keep us under their thumbs."

"I heartily concur!" Q was back. "And I furthermore suggest that we raise a regiment from this county to fight."

Will Riker joined the group, standing just behind Jean-Luc. "Isn't that putting the cart before the horse?

"Of course not!" Kyle disagreed with his son swiftly and loudly. "We need to be ready for an attack the moment events make our continued existence as part of this union intolerable."

"What events?" Jean-Luc asked.

"Why the election of that scoundrel, Abraham Lincoln," Q answered with his own speechifying technique on full display. "If that Republican abolitionist should win the upcoming presidential election, our southern brethren and we will have no choice but to secede from the union!"

The speech brought cheers from the crowd of men in the room, drinking and smoking. Loud braggadocio broke out all over, with threats and predictions wielded like pistols. Kyle surveyed the group and, just before he joined forces with Q to plan an attack strategy, he leaned over to Jean-Luc.

"We can count on you, can't we Captain?"

Jean-Luc did not hesitate. "Senator, you can rest assured that I will do everything in my power to defend my beliefs and my rightful property."

With a pat on Jean-Luc's shoulder, Kyle addressed the crowd, capitalizing on their anger to mount his own speech. His words and passion shocked Jean-Luc, but provided an intimate glimpse into the mind of what he had come to think of as the enemy. These landowners, Jean-Luc realized, certainly did mean to fight to maintain the inhumane system of slavery that had wrought their wealth, as J.P Hanson had warned him. His meeting with Miss Ro had occurred not an hour too late.

Ro Laren dressed and snuck out of the bedroom before any of the other women had woken up. Several doors opened into the upstairs hallway and she needed a moment to remember which room she had seen Jean-Luc, Dr. Quaice and the Trois rush into with Beverly. Once she identified the correct door to Deanna's bedroom, she paused with her hand on the knob, listening to second thoughts.

Ro had intended to say something to Beverly. Beverly did not usually attend these events, any more than she did. To Ro, it was clear that Beverly had come today to see Captain Picard. Although not the least bit sentimental or romantic herself, Ro felt a pang of sympathy for both the would-be lovers. While the captain understood why they could not be together, Beverly would not know the reason. Thus, Ro concocted a plan to tell Beverly the minimal amount of information to put her mind at ease and keep her heart from breaking.

"I'm not your rival," she had planned to say. "My relationship with Captain Picard is not romantic, but it must remain secret. For now, it must appear that we're a couple, but some day . . . ."

She let go of the doorknob. Her story, she realized, would never be convincing. Moreover, she could not afford anyone learning the truth. Saying anything that might expose her operation was too risky. It was not just her own life at stake, but the lives of the people seeking freedom as well. And, although Ro no longer owned any human being, she still felt a responsibility for the well-being of her co-conspirators. She truly felt sorry for Beverly, but she could not say anything.


	8. Chapter 8

Hi All,

Thank you for the reviews – I very much appreciate them! I'm so glad that readers are joining me on this unexpected journey. I hope you enjoy what comes next . . . . Below – a pivotal chapter.

Peace,

Liz

* * *

"Here, c-come the w-women," Reg Barclay, the first to spot Lwaxanna Troi and Marie Picard walking arm-in-arm down the grand staircase, announced.

Behind them, Ro Laren led the others.

Lwaxanna gestured to everyone, "Please, all, enjoy the food, drink and dancing, in tribute to our newest neighbor and the rescuer of damsels in distress, Captain Jean-Luc Picard!" She began a round of applause that echoed in the great hall.

 _Merde._ Jean-Luc despised the attention. He bowed his head as graciously as he could, while trying to get a glimpse of Beverly coming down the stairs.

At Lwaxanna's direction, a band began playing. She tried desperately to divide her attention between the musicians, her guests and the drama that instinct told her was about to play out not four feet from where she stood.

Miss Ro walked right up to Jean-Luc. "Congratulations on your rescue, Captain," she loudly enough for Lwaxanna to hear. Then she slapped him, loudly enough for Lwaxanna to hear.

Stunned, Jean-Luc raised a hand to his stinging cheek. Miss Ro leaned in and spoke confidentially. "You're going to have to woo me back, but in the meantime, you should be able to talk with Beverly again. As long as you end up with me by the end of the night."

He could hardly nod his assent to her plan. He hoped that she saw it in his eyes before she spun around and walked up to Will Riker.

Startled by what he had just seen, Will recovered quickly. "Miss Ro," he smiled at her, with a polite bow of his head.

"Mr. Riker," she responded. "I thought if I came over here, that would make it easier for you to ask me to dance."

He took the bait with a twinkle in his eyes. "Would you do me the honor of this dance?"

"I'm sure it would be my pleasure." With a pointed look over her shoulder at Jean-Luc, Miss Ro took to the dance floor with Will.

"Jean-Luc!" Marie had witnessed the whole episode. "What in the world is going on? What happened today?"

He pulled her aside to speak, as Lwaxanna tactfully encouraged everyone to dance. "Have you seen Beverly? Is she all right?"

"Yes, she's with Deanna, getting ready to come down. I heard that you _carried_ her from the creek and someone said you were with another woman before that." Marie could not conceive of her brother-in-law doing the things that he was accused of doing with ladies today. "I don't understand."

Jean-Luc passed his hand over his bald head, thinking. "Well, things have probably been blown out of proportion. I just had some barbecue with a neighbor—"

"Who?"

"With Miss Ro, whom I had just met, and, I was talking with Bev—Mrs. Crusher—when she was overcome by the heat. That's all." He tried to look reassuring, with an innocuous grin and simple nodding.

Marie regarded him as though he had just told her he had been talking with vegetable plants all day. What she thought of as his uncharacteristic behavior underscored the fact that she really did not know him well at all. Perhaps he was much more of a ladies man than he had led her to believe. She certainly could not tell him what she thought in public.

"Well, please, Jean-Luc, don't get into any trouble," she entreated him.

"Marie," he said with a smile, "I have no intention of—"

Then he saw her. Beverly was walking down the stairs with Deanna, carefully holding her skirts up so as not to trip or to reveal more than the tips of her slippers. The danger past, Jean-Luc's mind began to remember the experience of carrying Beverly. Her soft orange hair, a light scent of flowers. Her small waist, the porcelain skin of her arms, shoulders and chest, visible above the ruffle on her bodice. The warmth of her head resting against his body. Her lips, pink and full, so close that he could almost kiss them. The remembrance had a very distinct effect on his body. He felt warm, hot, his skin craving contact with hers, arousal growing within him. His collar was suddenly too confining and his hardening desire ached against his leg.

As she descended the stairs, Beverly felt the eyes of the entire ballroom upon her. She decided to ignore them and concentrate on walking, but this left her at a disadvantage.

"Do you see him?" She asked Deanna.

Beside her friend and holding the railing, Deanna casually looked at the crowd. Captain Picard stood out, even though he was no taller or broader than the other men. He had a presence. Comparing him to the local men she had known for years, Deanna could see now why the older women were so attracted to him.

"Yes."

"Is he looking at me?"

"Staring," Deanna answered. "He's looking at you as though there isn't anyone else here."

Beverly felt her heart beating. She dared to ask the question that had been troubling her. "Is Miss Ro near him?"

"No," Deanna sighed. "She's dancing with Will Riker." She sounded more than a little annoyed at that circumstance.

Beverly knew that Deanna liked Will. She could not fathom what in the world had happened to cause Miss Ro, who normally never attended these parties, to suddenly throw herself at the two men in whom Deanna and she were interested.

Almost at the bottom of the stairs, she ventured a glance up. She caught his eyes, then caught her breath. She felt the same magic she had on the night they had first met. As though her heart and her body were telling her, in a strong, urgent message, that they must have this man. She saw emotion in his eyes—the love he had professed?—and she read body language that said he felt the same way. He seemed to be leaning toward her. His lips parted as though he were about to speak to her, even though he was standing on the other side of the room.

Then, suddenly, he was gone.

As Beverly watched, he turned around and walked out of the house through the French doors on the other side of the room. Next to where he had been standing, Marie smiled sweetly at her, unaware of what had happened.

"What?" Deanna said. "I don't understand. Where did he go?"

Beverly's first thought was to follow him. But a second, darker thought, held her still. Hurt, loss and pain loomed before her. She knew the infinite sorrow of losing someone she had loved. Her life, since her childhood, had been defined by it, as she had lost her brother, her parents, her husband. Now, her life's experience was warning her that it was about to happen again.

Once outside, Jean-Luc walked briskly away from the house. He felt a rush of adrenaline as though he had been running. For a moment, he considered running, pushing his body physically, to ward off his arousal. He was breathing heavily. What was he thinking? He kept moving, putting more distance between himself and the complications in the Troi household, which contained adversaries and allies alike, in a web of intrigue in which he felt himself suddenly trapped.

 _I don't want to see her get hurt._ Dalen's words echoed in his mind. He had spoken with such urgency, almost a pain in his eyes. At the time, Jean-Luc had felt that he would never, ever hurt Beverly, if only she would have him. But, standing in the crowded ballroom, in the middle of the show that Miss Ro and he were forced to perform to keep their real alliance secret from their prying neighbors, he realized that, if he continued along this path, then hurting Beverly was exactly what he was going to do.

Jean-Luc was unsure what to do, an unfamiliar feeling that he, used to being in command, despised. He wanted—needed—Beverly and, after so many years alone, was it asking too much to finally find a woman who understood him, who liked him? Was it hubris of him, selfish of him, to love someone so beautiful, so intelligent, so kind, and to hope that they might be together? When, all around him, people gave in to their desires, would it be wrong for him to do the same?

That was the crux of his dilemma. What he regarded as his duty versus what he personally wanted. Duty had been his life since he had joined the naval academy as a teenager. He had never questioned the path he had taken, never regretted his choices. Although he had never seriously thought about taking a wife, Beverly had made him think and feel very differently. Suddenly, a new life seemed to be possible, seemed to be visible to him on a new horizon.

The only thing standing in his way, and it was considerable, was the duty he felt to free his slaves. He had to grant these people their freedom and he had to do it as quickly as possible. Every second that they lived in bondage was an injury that no one could heal. And Jean-Luc felt acutely pained for every year that they had lived under Robert's ownership. He felt blood on his hands.

He also felt Beverly in his life, her frequent presence a light in the dark of his days. Their occasional touches—hand holding, brushing each other accidentally—thrilled him like no contact with a woman ever had. Yet, more than just the physical attraction he felt toward her, Beverly _knew_ him, at times, it seemed, better than he knew himself.

Damn it, why did he have to deny himself these pleasures, deny himself love. Certainly, he had more than paid his dues to his country, his people. The music fading in the background reminded him that all he need do was turn around and he could be dancing with Beverly—yes, dancing, as much as he hated to embarrass himself, he would try—for the chance to hold Beverly, look into her blue eyes, hear her tease him. Certainly, he, like any other human, deserved some happiness, even, he dared hope, a wife or even, some day, if she were willing, a family. There was no limit to the life he could imagine, and it all began with him going back to Beverly.

"'Scuse me, massah."

The voice jolted him out of his reverie.

"You need sumtin?"

A stooped, dark man, perhaps his own age, stood in front of a very small cabin, the first in a long row of cabins. In the setting sun, Jean-Luc saw that the housing looked meager when compared to his own slave quarters, and even those certainly did not meet his standards of living. A young boy stood beside the man who had spoken to him, half hiding behind his ragged pant leg Beyond them, Jean-Luc saw a long row of men, women and children trudging home from the fields, their long work day finally ended. As soon as they saw him, their voices—talking, laughing—stopped abruptly. The eyes upon him drilled into this soul. He saw subservience, fear.

He knew what he had to do.

Upon returning to the house, Jean-Luc engaged Kyle Riker in a more detailed discussion of the impending conflict that the latter foresaw. Q and others eagerly joined in, happy to have added him to their number. Jean-Luc saw his role as gathering information that could be useful to him as he prepared to subvert the very system they were pledging to maintain. He made mental notes, but had difficulty focusing.

His eyes kept returning to Beverly, gliding across the floor with different men. Reg Barclay, who had stumbled embarrassingly with Deanna, suddenly moved with grace with Beverly's guidance. She looked equally comfortable with a tall man whom Jean-Luc had heard others call "professor," and with a man he knew only as John, who smiled constantly at her. Will Riker, with his blue eyes, beard and easygoing manner, held her for two dances, as Jean-Luc felt jealousy cloud his comprehension.

During their second dance, Will felt he was entitled to make conversation. "It's a pleasure to see you, Beverly. It's been years since you came to a barbecue. And since we danced together."

Beverly's mood had worsened from upset to foul, as Deanna's advice—to show Jean-Luc what he was missing and make him want to dance with her—apparently was not working. "Don't let yourself get accustomed to dancing with me. I may not be back again for several more years."

"That would be a shame. For you as well as for all the men in the room."

"I hate to disappoint you, but I'm not particularly concerned about all the men in the room."

Will smiled. "But you are concerned about one of the men." It was not a question.

She faltered, unused to being bested. The taunting smirk left her face and her eyes grew dark. "If you'll excuse me. I suddenly feel unwell." She backed away from him and retreated to the hallway, Deanna quickly following her.

"I must apologize," Jean-Luc said to Miss Ro some time later, after fortifying himself with uncounted shots of whiskey. "I behaved horribly and I hope you will forgive me."

She looked at him skeptically.

"And, I would be delighted if you would honor me with this dance."

The music was a waltz, or as close to a waltz as anything Jean-Luc had heard that evening, thus he felt he had some chance of performing fairly well on the dance floor.

Deanna was about to step on the dance floor with Will when she saw Jean-Luc and Miss Ro. "Will, would you do me a favor?"

Will was struck by the worry on her face. "Of course, anything."

"Dance with Beverly again."

"I don't think she—" He followed her gaze to an awkwardly moving Jean-Luc and Ro. Deanna's sweet face, which he hoped to see more of, pleaded with him.

 _How could he do this?_ Beverly began to wonder if she had dreamed the words of love she remembered Jean-Luc saying to her just hours before by the bridge. If he truly loved her, if he did not play games, why was he ignoring her and pursuing another woman right in front of her. But, what about Deanna's assurance that he loved her? The younger woman was never wrong about such things. And what about the time they had spent together? She could not possibly have misinterpreted his obvious interest. Nothing about his actions suggested that his attention could be so fleeting as to be directed at another woman as quick as a hare.

"I hope you're not sick of me yet."

Without thinking, Beverly accepted Will's arm and returned to the dance floor. The proximity gave her multiple chances to glare angrily at Jean-Luc. To Beverly, he did not seem to be enjoying himself, which made her show off her grace and prowess even more.

Will understood that he was playing a part and he played it perfectly, guiding Beverly swiftly across the floor. He felt miserable on her behalf and when he glanced at Ro, he summed her expression up as halfway between embarrassed and terrified. Only hours after watching a panicked Picard carry Beverly across the vast lawn and up Lwaxana's staircase, as if he feared for her life, he had suddenly left her for the awkward loner? Even though Will himself was somewhat attracted to Ro and curious about her mysterious self-isolation and her vaguely Oriental ways, there seemed to be something about the way Picard and Beverly were together that seemed _right._ But, the captain and the much younger Ro? It just did not make sense to him.

* * *

"Do you need anything, Captain?" Guinan's question was the usual one, checking in on Jean-Luc in his study after she helped Marie get undressed and before she herself went to bed. Marie had seemed particularly agitated after the barbecue. Guinan had soothed her with a lavender lotion.

"Yes." Jean-Luc looked up from the glass of whiskey he had been studying. "I need a word with you."

Guinan walked into the room, serene as always.

"Please, sit down."

His request was shocking in his adopted society, but Guinan did not hesitate, taking a seat in a chair opposite him. "What can I help you with?"

Jean-Luc had always liked Guinan, with her quiet wisdom and sly way of ensuring that her wishes were carried out, whether it meant subtly ordering around the other house servants or manipulating Marie or him. But, her recent formation of an alliance between Ro and him was particularly masterful.

"I met a friend of yours at the party today," he said.

"Oh, who was that?" Guinan asked.

"I think you know who I mean."

"Ro Laren?"

"Yes. Tell me, have you worked with her for very long? How does the secret network work? Who else on our property knows about it?"

"Geordi, Worf and Mr. Soong helped build the tunnel on Miss Ro's property. Miss Ro receives communications about once every month or so letting her know there's someone coming through. Most times, it's just one person, but sometimes it's more. Sometimes, there's a break, if one of the other stops is under surveillance. I don't know the other stops. Miss Ro only knows the ones before and after hers. Wesley helps her sometimes."

The reference to Beverly's son slipped by unnoticed by Jean-Luc, so intent was he on interrogating Guinan and getting some specific answers.

"Where does she pick up passengers?" He asked.

"A few different places in the woods on the other side of town."

"Why did you steer her toward me? Was Robert involved in this?"

"No, the late Mr. Picard would never have broken the law."

"But you assumed I would?" Jean-Luc had a realization. "You overheard me speaking with J.P. Hanson, didn't you?"

"Yes," Guinan admitted, "but I had a feeling about you before then."

"Oh?"

"I can't quite explain it. Something I saw in the way you looked at us, at me. Something that made me trust you."

Jean-Luc thought bitterly about Beverly. At least someone can trust me. He turned the glass around in his hand, watching the golden brown liquid swirl.

"I'm going to collaborate with Miss Ro. She's invited me to dinner tomorrow to make plans. I'd like you to join us."

"All right."

"One more thing." Jean-Luc finished the last of his drink. "I'm going to free all people imprisoned on this land, starting next week. I'll need to do so carefully and I will ask for everyone's cooperation in keeping that secret. All our lives, plus the lives of others that we can help escape, rest on no one knowing what we're doing here. Can you deliver this message to all the Africans on the property?"

"Yes, I can."

* * *

When Dalen came downstairs, Beverly was already in his examination room, washing all his instruments in a bucket of soapy water, as she did every Monday morning. He was not practiced at speaking to her in a round-about fashion, but he was afraid to bring up the topic of her love life directly.

"Good morning, Beverly." Dalen tried to sound a little, but not too, cheerful.

"Good morning." She answered without looking at him, without any emotion in her voice.

Dalen stared at her straight back and resolved to thrash Jean-Luc Picard the next time he saw him.

"Beverly, are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Her tone and manner said otherwise.

Dalen walked over to her and took the scalpel she was wiping out of her hand. Still, she kept her eyes down. But she began to speak, in a quivering voice.

"I-I don't know what happened, Dalen. We-we got along so well. He said some very nice things to me. I felt so . . . I thought he felt the same way . . . and then . . . then . . . ."

Beverly needed a shoulder to cry on and Dalen was perfectly content to provide it. He held her like the daughter he felt her to be and let her cry into his jacket for as long as she needed.


	9. Chapter 9

"All right, Mr. Soong, what was it you wanted to show me?"

Wiping the sweat off his brow, Jean-Luc caught up to his foreman, who excitedly unrolled papers on a table in the barn.

"We did as you requested, Captain," Soong began, "we figured out a way to increase cotton production with fewer cotton pickers."

"We?"

"I worked with Geordi and Wesley."

"Geordi?" Jean-Luc was incredulous. "The blind man?"

"Yes. In a way, he sees things that others don't. And Wesley."

"Wesley?"

"Wesley Crusher."

The name set off alarms in Jean-Luc's head. "You mean, Mrs. Beverly Crusher's son, Wesley?"

"Yes," Soong nodded enthusiastically. "The three of us make—"

"What the devil is Mrs. Crusher's son doing on my property working with my foreman? Why is a blind man designing machinery to do a task he's never even seen?"

Shocked at his boss's sudden temper, Noonien Soong was momentarily speechless. "I, uh, well, we, uh—"

Jean-Luc realized the ridiculousness of his question, that his temper had gotten the better of him. "Go on, show me what you've come up with."

"Ah, yes, we developed two different machines. The first, the picker, would be drawn by oxen and would pick the cotton off the plants with rotating blades. An attachment at the rear," he pointed to the diagram, "would collect the cotton as it fell from the blades.

"Second, after the picker finished going through the fields, the cotton would be placed into a separator, which would separate out the seeds and twigs from the cotton itself—"

Jean-Luc stared at the diagrams, amazed. The machinery was brilliant. If they could somehow build the two machines and put them to use in his cotton fields, he would need far fewer field hands for his harvest. He would be able to discreetly begin to liberate people and send them north through the underground railroad that passed through the Ro property.

Soong paused, waiting for a reaction from his boss, but none was immediately forthcoming. Instead, the older man studied both diagrams intently. In contrast to Robert Picard, who had never needed to know the details of anything as long as the work was done, the new Picard apparently was very interested in mechanics.

"Well done, Mr. Soong." Jean-Luc finally said, nodding his approval of the work before him.

"As I said, the three of us make a good team."

Jean-Luc tried to calculate when and how his plans could be put into action. "When would you be able to implement these systems?" He hoped it would be soon enough to enable him to free a good portion of his workforce, but with talk of war in the air and the presidential election looming, there was no guarantee that he would have another planting season to try the proposed new machinery out.

"Well, we have a prototype of the picker ready, but we need some more materials for the separator."

Jean-Luc turned in surprise to look at the disheveled man. "You mean to tell me that you could have these machines operational this season?"

"Oh, yes. As I said, we would need to purchase some materials and—"

Jean-Luc set the papers down. "Make it so. Purchase everything you need and put these machines in operation. If you encounter any problems, let me know immediately. I want these machines both operating in time for the harvest."

Soong's eyes widened in alarm. "But that's in weeks! We'll be hard pressed to get everything worked out that fast."

"Yes, I know. You shall have to work long hours, and I will help you. Use as many people as you need. This task is of the utmost importance and your first priority. Understood?"

"Yes, Captain. Understood."

* * *

Beverly had made her famous pecan pie for the sewing circle. As the women settled in—Deanna, Lwaxanna, Vash, Alynna, Kate, Marie and Nella—Beverly felt a tension in the room. They were as quiet as a funeral, she thought, which, she continued her simile, would make her the corpse. Beyond the usual pleasantries, she said nothing as the women began to work. Miss Ro's absence, unremarkable any other time, was now conspicuous. Beverly wondered how many tongues would suffer from bite marks before someone brought the topic up.

It didn't take long. After about ten minutes of sewing and chatting about other people, Nella could not seem to contain herself. "Beverly, I just want to say that we all feel awful for you and we take your side in this."

"In what?" Beverly asked innocently.

"Well, in the, with, you know," Nella flustered, waiting for someone to rescue her.

After letting her sweat a bit, Vash jumped in. "It's not every day a widow comes out to meet a man at the most public event in the county and is forced to suffer him chasing after a younger woman."

She could not possibly have phrased it more viciously, to Beverly's thinking. Her words stung, but Beverly continued to sew without looking up.

"Oh, dear," Lwaxanna said, "we all feel so terribly bad for you, you poor thing. And I would like to make a motion to expel Laren Ro—"

"Ro Laren," Deanna corrected.

"—from the Ladies Auxiliary Sewing Circle."

"I second," Kate said.

"Beverly probably doesn't want to talk about it," Marie said gently, stealing a glance at her friend. But Beverly kept her head down and kept silent.

"I've never seen anything so unusual in my life," Kate went on. "One minute he's flirting with Miss Ro, then the next he's gawking at Beverly. He carried you across the entire lawn, into the house and up the stairs as if your life depended on it!" She looked at Beverly, trying unsuccessfully to get her attention. "And then, he's back with Miss Ro."

"Terribly rude."

"Uncouth."

"A complete cad."

"Really, Beverly," Vash picked up where she had left off. "What an awful experience for you. I don't know how you can hold your head up after an embarrassment like that."

Beverly flung her sewing on to the floor and stood up. Across from her, Deanna sensed her anger and prepared for an explosion.

"I'll tell you how I keep my dignity." Beverly's voice was tightly controlled fury. "By not letting other women make me feel insecure and not good enough. I'm not going to sit here and listen to you insult me under the pretense of criticizing Captain Picard. And I'm not going to allow you to pry into my relationship—or former relationship—with him."

Beverly stormed out of the house and walked quickly up Main Street, away from the catty women, away from her miserable situation. Her anger and energy carried her all the way through town, past curious onlookers, and into the country. This was the other side of the county, away from the Picards and Trois and Nechayevs and the rest of them. Her heart hurt her so, she wished she could keep walking until she was . . . somewhere else.

The afternoon shower did not improve her mood. The rain began as a trickle, but quickly became a downpour. Still, she continued trekking away from town, with no plan and no desire to think of anything. Her physical discomfort was a welcome distraction from the emotional discomfort that threatened her constantly. Every hard drop of rain that pelted her helped to drive his face, his voice, his touch from her mind. She felt her shoes fill with water. Mud puddles formed on the dirt road. She walked on. Her wet dress clung to her, heavy with water, making walking difficult. She kept her head down and her tears mixed with the rain drops.

In her sour mood, Beverly did not notice the carriage until it was almost upon her. She looked up to see a concerned Will Riker stopping his horse and staring at her.

"Beverly! What are you doing out here in the rain?"

She looked at him but gave no answer. She could think of nothing to say, no answer, no snippy rejoinder.

Before she knew what was happening, Will had jumped down and helped her into the carriage, then climbed in next to her. The carriage top covered them. Will had a light blanket that had been keeping his legs dry. He wrapped it around her shoulders, then started the carriage moving again. She was thankful that he had not spoken or asked her any more questions.

"I'm just heading back from taking my father to a meeting in the next county. From there, he's heading to Atlanta. The state is preparing for action if Lincoln wins the presidency." Will made small talk to ease into conversation.

"Lucky for you, I got a late start back."

They were approaching the edge of town.

"Can you drop me off on the corner by Dr. Quaice's house?" That was the side away from her house, where the sewing circle was. Will noticed, but did not say anything.

The rain had scattered the townspeople and the only ones remaining in the main thoroughfare were too busy conducting their own business to notice a drenched widow riding unescorted in a carriage with a man.

Will turned down Dr. Quaice and Beverly's street and pulled to a stop by the doctor's house. He turned to regard the shivering woman next to him. Her vibrant red hair seemed a duller color as it hung limply on her neck. Her eyes were swollen from crying and her face seemed as cloudy as the sky, but with a sadness that would not clear. Will had known her a long time, but he could not remember Beverly Crusher ever looking so small and weak. Not even, he reflected, after her husband died. He could not keep silent.

"I know it's not my place to say anything, but for what it's worth, I think you're better than him. You're beautiful, intelligent, caring and funny. I know nothing's going to happen between us, but I want you to know, Beverly, that I'll always be in your corner."

It was exactly what she needed to hear. His words of support, his compliments were a balm to her wounds. She looked at him with fresh tears pooling in her eyes.

"I know it's not my place to say anything," Beverly said, "but you should visit Deanna Troi. I know you still carry a torch for her and I know that she likes you. Don't waste time, Will. You never know what will happen." She touched his arm, whispered, "thank you," then climbed down by herself and headed into Dalen's house.

* * *

Marie was startled when Jean-Luc quickly walked into the dining room and sat down on the other end of the table from her. He had been working so late that he had not eaten dinner with her in some time. In fact, between his office and the fields, plus occasional dinners at Ms. Ro's house—unchaperoned—Jean-Luc had adeptly avoided Marie's company for weeks, apart from polite pleasantries. Marie had a pretty good idea why and now that she had a chance to speak to him, she was going to give him a good piece of her mind.

"Good evening, Marie," he said with a small smile.

"Good evening, Jean-Luc." Marie finished her wine all at once to fortify her courage. "How nice that you're able to eat with me this evening." Standing near the table in case they needed anything, Guinan raised her eyebrows at her former owner, now employer's, tone.

Jean-Luc finished chewing his mouthful of roast pork and dabbed at his lips with his napkin. "I have been quite busy implementing some new systems and reviewing legal papers. I apologize for making myself so scarce."

Marie stabbed at her meat. "You know, Jean-Luc, I don't think we've really had much of a chance to talk since Lwaxanna Troi's barbecue for you."

Jean-Luc leaned back slightly. He looked nervously to both sides as he lifted his fork up to his mouth.

"As a matter of fact, I'm sure we haven't," Marie continued, "because I know that the very first thing I would have asked you if I had had the chance was, what in God's name are you doing with Ms. Ro after pursuing my friend Beverly so ardently?" She slammed her silverware on her dinner plate to broadcast her anger.

Jean-Luc straightened. He realized, too late, that he should have been better prepared for this moment. All the excuses he had haphazardly concocted now seemed grossly inadequate. His sister-in-law stared at him unrelentingly, awaiting his response. As much as he hated to lie to her, he had no choice.

"Marie, I believe that a gentleman's affairs of the heart are his own. I've always been a private person, as you know, and I'm used to being on my own. I'm simply not comfortable discussing the matter with you."

"Not comfortable?" Marie was outraged. "Good! You should be uncomfortable because you behaved atrociously. You made a fool of yourself, you embarrassed me and what you did to poor Beverly was . . . was extraordinary cruelty!"

The mention of Beverly and the bare truth of his cruelty to her, coming from Marie, only tightened the noose of guilt he had settled on his neck that fateful day. He could not think of any response. Nay, he believed it was part of his punishment to take Marie's criticism without any defense. He had none that he could admit.

"What kind of man are you, Jean-Luc? What kind of man woos a shy, unassuming woman who wants nothing to do with flirting or courtship, and wins her heart, then . . . then simply _discards_ her when he sees a new, young face? You should be completely ashamed of yourself!"

Oh, I am, he thought, I am.

* * *

As Dr. Quaice would never ask Beverly to return to the Picard plantation to attend to the medical needs of the slaves, that task now fell to him. As he refused to have anything to do with Jean-Luc, the duty of speaking with Dalen now fell to Marie. On the day of his visit, it turned out, Jean-Luc had gone out with Miss Ro. Marie did not know where they were, nor did she care to.

Guinan set the iced tea and fruit out on the verandah. Dalen updated Marie as to everyone's condition—who was pregnant, who was sick, who was better—just as he always had with Robert or Jean-Luc. He mopped his face with his handkerchief and drank some cool liquid as he prepared to tackle the elephant in the room.

"Marie, I don't suppose you have any insight into what in tarnation is going through your brother-in-law's head, do you?"

Marie clutched her own handkerchief. "Oh, Dalen, I wish I knew. I wish I could talk some sense into him. I'm sure Miss Ro is a good person, but she's so ill-suited for him. And, Dalen," she turned in her chair to face him, "all those months together, . . . you saw it, too, didn't you? Jean-Luc and Beverly were in love, weren't they?"

Dalen could not suppress a smile at the memory. "I never saw Beverly so happy since before Jack died. As clear as the nose on my face, those two were madly in love."

Marie sighed, in pain for her friend. "I just don't understand what happened."

"Excuse me." Guinan appeared in the doorway with a fresh pitcher of iced tea.

"Oh, thank you, Guinan," Marie said.

After she exchanged pitchers on the table, Guinan picked up a palm leaf fan and began to cool both Marie and Dalen.

"Why, thank you, Guinan," Dalen said. "I'm much obliged." He poured himself another glass.

"Madame Picard, Dr. Quiace," Guinan's voice was polite but not submissive, "if you'll permit me to speak about the captain?"

Marie's eyes widened. Where she grew up, servants were never allowed to speak out of turn about their employers. It was very bad form and those were French servants—

"Go right ahead, Guinan," Dalen said before Marie could protest.

Slowly moving the fan up and down, Guinan spoke with her usual air of authority and mystery. "Something tells me that, deep down, the captain does love Dr. Crusher, just as much as she loves him. And I believe that one day they will be together again. We all just have to be patient."

The two seated people stared at her, but Guinan did not elaborate. She never did.


	10. Chapter 10

Summer turned to Fall. The Picard plantation successfully harvested its crop with seventy-five fewer field hands. The people who remained worked much harder, with Mr. Soong's machines, because they were being paid for their labor. The workforce had been divided, with some preferring to leave the area via the Underground Railroad and look for work in the North, and others preferring to stay local. Jean-Luc had asked J.P. Hanson to figure out a way that he could deed the part of his land on which the former slave quarters stood to become a village for the freedmen. Mr. Soong, Geordi and Wesley drew up plans for proper-sized houses and streets for the village.

Jean-Luc became accustomed to seeing Wesley work alongside his employees. Considered an apprentice, Wesley was paid only in experience, but Guinan always saw to it that he was fed. Watching him from a distance, Jean-Luc felt the boy represented a connection to Beverly and he enjoyed, was even proud of, Wesley's contributions as he suggested ideas, built mock-ups and tinkered with machines. He was really a gifted engineering genius, Jean-Luc thought. He should have a chance to pursue his studies.

At the same time, Jean-Luc and Miss Ro had upped the number of escapees that could be escorted through the county. They used every excuse possible—going into town for supplies, attending a church concert, out for a Sunday ride—to sneak people in their buckboard. As a man of business, Jean-Luc had much more opportunity to travel about, which made it easier to help more people. The county wags gossiped about them, certainly, as an unlikely couple, but no one suspected them of breaking the South's most sacred law. They shared their secret with no one—Ro, because she trusted no one, and Jean-Luc, because he did not want to put anyone else at risk.

He worked as hard as he possibly could to keep his thoughts from turning to Beverly. He wrote letters of recommendation for the freed men and women who went north. He corresponded with friends in France. He helped out with the harvest, causing nearly every man and woman working in the fields to stop and gawk at him. He tried to get to know the people living on his land, land that he hoped to soon give them.

For instance, Jean-Luc learned that Worf was a man as strong in character as he was in physical ability. Loyalty, family, honor—these things were important to Worf, who was a widower with a young son. Through casual talks with Geordi, Jean-Luc heard a recounting of the young man's lovelorn history and his hidden feelings for a woman named Aquiel. Jean-Luc grew uncomfortable as it became clear that Geordi was seeking relationship advice from him—advice he felt especially unqualified to give.

* * *

Lying in bed, Q and Vash's talk turned toward their neighbors, as it often did.

"Darling," Vash purred, "you seem to be getting obsessed with Jean-Luc Picard."

Q feigned hurt. " _Moi?_ I'm not obsessed. I'm careful. When someone in my backyard is plotting something that I'm not a part of, I need to find out what it is and either profit from it or stop it. Can't you get anything out of Miss Ro?"

"I don't see Ro regularly. Those old bags kicked her out of the sewing circle."

"Well, call on her. Be creative. I know those two are up to something."

"Yes, they're up to something called romance. And I'd rather not know all the details of that."

"It's more than that. I have a feeling."

"That's what Alynna thinks, too. That they'll marry and combine their lands."

"If they do, they'll have the largest estate in the county. They'd be able to put pressure on Riker, but to what end? What's their angle?"

Leaning on her elbow, Vash considered this. "He's an odd bird, that captain. We don't know much about him, except that he's well-travelled. Maybe that's why he was attracted to someone with more exotic looks." She gazed into the distance as if thinking about this more. "I don't know, Q. I tried talking to him at the barbecue."

"I did as well."

"He's tough to get information from."

Q leaned back on the pillows in thought. His own attempts to befriend Jean-Luc had not been particularly fruitful. "He doesn't give away much."

An idea came to Vash and she smiled. "Yes, _he_ is hard to get information from. Maybe we should try getting information from someone else."

"I'm not following you."

"What about his sister-in-law, the grieving widow, Marie"?

Q clapped his hands in a loud thunderclap. "I just love the way your mind works!"

"Wait till you see how my body works."

* * *

Deanna thought it the most odd election party she had ever attended. Abraham Lincoln, a man she had been taught to hate, had won. Yet, most people in the Rikers' lavish mansion seemed happy about it. Kyle Riker was overtly flirting with Kate Pulaski, lending credence to the old rumors. Alynna Nechayev was holding court with a group of businessman in a most unfeminine manner. Several men were talking to Nella Darren, as if competing for her hand. Her mother had tried to capture some male attention for Deanna, once even literally inserting Deanna in the conversation by pushing her into the center of a circle of men. She escaped and sat down on a sofa. Immediately, she noticed one of the men in Alynna's group, Devinoni Ral, looking at her. Relatively new to the county, Ral was in some sort of business. Deanna had heard his name and knew who he was, but had never met him. It looked like that was about to change. She felt her heart begin to race.

Deanna relaxed when Will Riker sat down next to her.

"Your enthusiasm for the political process is simply bubbling over." He said with a smile.

"I'll have my mother send Holm over to clean it off your carpet," Deanna quipped. "Can you please explain something to me?"

"I'll try."

"I understand the yelling and the anger I'm hearing from some of the men, but why are so many people happy about Lincoln's election? Why all the toasts and boasts? Why all this . . . business?"

Will smiled. "Well, some people, like my father for instance, think that Lincoln's winning the presidency is a good thing because it will force southern states to secede. If that happens, Georgia will join and we'll all be part of a new nation, one that will do whatever it wants without having to kowtow to Yankee interests in the North."

Deanna had heard people talk about this, of course, but it had always seemed so unlikely. Until today. "Do you really think this could happen?"

The smile that was fading as he explained the ramifications of the election was completely gone. "Based on what my father hears, and what I see around me," with a glance at the crowd of revelers, "yes, I think it will."

Deanna was dumbstruck. "I don't understand. Will the United States just let half of its states leave the country?"

"No," Will voice was somber, "not without a war."

"War?"

He nodded. "That's what they're celebrating." He pointed her attention to the different swarms in the room as he explained their motives. "Alynna and some other people see a business opportunity. I see Mr. Ral is over there with them now. My father and Q, and Vash, of course, see a chance for power that they want to grab. Kate sees this as a good time to rekindle the flame with my father and hope that he'll make a decent woman out of her since he's about to become richer than ever. The young men are after Nella because they're hoping to marry before they go off to war. They would be all over you, too, but . . . ."

"But what?"

"I scared them away." The smile was back, making his blue eyes twinkle in that way Deanna adored.

"Did you?" She smiled at him.

"I hope we're not interrupting." Vash led Marie Picard to the sofa across from Deanna and Will. "Marie and I just need to sit for a moment. All this excitement with the election." Marie looked uncomfortable with their intrusion.

Will looked crestfallen. Luckily, Deanna knew what to do. "Please, sit down, won't you? Will was just going to show me the latest additions to his father's library."

Catching on quickly, Will smiled. "Won't you excuse us?"

Marie watched the young couple leave. "They're a very good match, don't you think? I hope they stay together this time and get married."

With Marie's head turned away from her, Vash rolled her eyes, but played along. "Yes, they really do make a striking couple. They just seem to go together, like ham and eggs."

Marie laughed.

"I have to admit, though, Marie," Vash said conspiratorially, "I don't think that your brother-in-law and Miss Ro look quite that well-suited to one another."

Marie's smile disappeared. "Well, that makes two of us."

Vash prayed that she had stoked Marie with enough spirits. "Oh, I'm so glad to hear you say that, because I would never want to speak out of turn. You know how fond I am of you, Marie. And of your wonderful husband, may he rest in peace."

It was just what Marie needed to fuel her fire. Months of keeping quiet had taken a toll on her and the flames burst out of her uncontrolled. "I really believe Jean-Luc dishonors Robert's memory by carrying on like this. The Ro woman is so much younger than he is. I think he's making a perfect fool of himself!"

"So, he's really taken with her, then?"

Marie shrugged. "Well, I'm sure I don't know _what_ he thinks. He doesn't confide in me at all. He didn't say anything about Beverly even when it was plain as day that there was something between them."

"Really?"

"I still don't see how he ended up with Miss Ro when he seemed so very attracted to Beverly. And she to him!"

"I know!"

"Miss Ro has him doing all kinds of things on her plantation."

"The nerve of her!"

"He's over there constantly, helping out, sending Mr. Soong over there to help."

"Well, she's probably in a great deal of trouble, a woman trying to run a business."

"I'm sure that's why she's latched on to Jean-Luc." Marie appeared close to tears.

Vash helpfully produced a handkerchief.

"Oh, thank you." Marie dabbed at her eyes daintily. "And to think that I was actually rather fond of Jean-Luc at first. I thought maybe—oh, you're going to think I'm silly."

"Never!"

"I thought that, maybe, Beverly and he would marry and, and," she was sobbing now, "have children, and both of them would be so happy and they'd all live together in the house, just like when Robert and René and I . . . ."

Vash slid closer to Marie on the sofa and put an arm around her. "There, there, Marie. Jean-Luc could marry Miss Ro and have children. And, just think, the Picard plantation would be the largest in the county, by far."

"Oh, I don't care a wit about that. And I don't think Jean-Luc does either."

"Oh? What makes you say that?"

"He's said more than once that we have enough land and enough money to last us the rest of our lives."

Interesting, Vash thought. "That Jean-Luc. Whatever does he see in Miss Ro, then?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Marie said.

* * *

Jean-Luc spent the entire morning working on the new tunnel being surreptitiously constructed on his property. Designed by Mr. Soong, Geordi and Wesley, the tunnel would connect to the one on the Ro property and afford them a second path to bring escapees into safety. That way, if the road they usually used were not clear, they could turn down a lane that led directly on to Picard property. The entrance to the tunnel would be concealed in bushes not far from that lane.

Wesley Crusher had been working on the project, but Jean-Luc had not spoken to him since before the barbecue. The two men had kept their distance from each other, yet eyed each other warily when they could do so unobserved—Jean-Luc to make sure Wesley was safe and Wesley because he was unsure how to react to the older man. He wanted to be angry with the captain, yet he knew that he was a good man who had won the admiration of everyone on his property. A part of him wanted to reason with the captain, make him return to his heartbroken mother.

Used to being in command, Jean-Luc naturally slipped into the role of supervising the work. Whenever the men encountered a technical challenge, Jean-Luc turned to Geordi, at his elbow, for advice. Geordi seemed to see the problem in his head and was usually able to offer a solution. The other men, mostly Africans, but also including Mr. Soong and Wesley, carried out Geordi's visions. Worf was nominally in charge of the workforce and the first one people tended to go to with problems.

Now, as Geordi instructed Wesley on adding beams to hold up the tunnel, they heard a woman's voice from the ground above them.

"How is everything going?" Miss Ro called out.

They heard Captain Picard answer. "We're ahead of schedule. We should finish by the end of the week."

"That's good, because I have someone coming through Wednesday night."

The captain paused. "We won't be finished here by Wednesday. We'll have to use the route through your property."

"Well, can't you just speed up the work and have it done earlier?" Ro asked.

"We have sped up the work and the end of the week is the earliest it can be ready."

Ro thought. "I'm worried that my property is being watched. I'll talk to Guinan and see if she has any ideas to help conceal us."

"Wait—what makes you think your property is being watched?"

"Some of my people and I have noticed Q riding down my road more frequently than usual."

"Could he simply be on county business?"

"I'm seeing him much more often. There isn't that much more going on in the county. He must be suspicious of me."

"I see." They heard the captain say. "Then, we'll have to have this tunnel ready."

"Good." Ro's voice sounded farther away, as though she started off once her message had been communicated and the work was to proceed as she had directed.

"Uh, Wes?" Geordi asked.

Wesley had stopped working to eavesdrop on the conversation. What fascinated him was the way that they talked. Captain Picard and Miss Ro were not interacting like a courting couple. Although Wesley scarcely considered himself an authority, they did not seem to be lovers so much as partners. Wesley had an idea.

"I'm sorry, Geordi," he propped a column up to support the beam that Geordi and he had been placing. "I'll be right back."

He had to know. Leaving Geordi's calls behind him, Wesley climbed out of the tunnel to see that the captain had returned to his work. Looking up, the older man accidentally caught Wesley's eye. He quickly turned around and began to walk in the opposite direction.

"Captain!" Wesley felt the anger he had born toward Captain Picard ebbing. He had a hunch and he had to see if he was right, even if it meant standing up to the person who intimidated him more than anyone in the world.

Jean-Luc froze, grasping for an excuse not to respond to Wesley. There was none, of course. He had once hoped the two of them could have a cordial relationship, but had foregone trying to start one out of respect for Wesley's and Beverly's feelings. He turned around to face Wesley totally unsure what the young man wanted, but hoping to make amends in some way.

"Yes?"

"Sir, are you only pretending to court Miss Ro to help smuggle fugitives?" Wesley sounded happy to reconcile the man that he admired with the man who had hurt his mother so badly.

Jean-Luc was taken aback. He grabbed Wesley's arm roughly and pulled him several feet away from the others. He lowered his voice. "Wesley, you must promise me not to say anything like that again. Not to anyone and, most of all, not to your mother."

"Why? She thinks you—"

"I know that, and . . . ," Jean-Luc struggled to continue, his face contorted in pain, "I'm more sorry for hurting her feelings than I could possibly explain to you, but I don't want her to know what we're doing."

"Why?" Wesley saw lines of worry on Captain Picard's face.

"Because it's far too risky. Wesley, the penalty for aiding escaped people is death. I could never put your mother at risk of death, never. She must remain completely ignorant of what we're doing. Do I have your word?"

No one had ever asked Wesley for his word. It made him feel like a man. And he was being asked to help protect his mother. He looked into Captain Picard's pleading eyes and realized why the captain was so upset: Captain Picard still cared about his mother, very much.

"You have my word," he said in as deep a voice as he could summon.

* * *

Beverly passed the mashed potatoes to her son, then looked down to cut her meat. She knew he had been at the Picard plantation today, working with Mr. Soong and Geordi. Her pride at his accomplishments and desire for him to keep learning was mixed, however, with the pain and anger she felt toward the owner of the land. She felt conflicted, and had alternately considered banning her son from the Picard land and using him to spy on the man she could not get out of her mind no matter how hard she tried. Her emotions at an impasse, Beverly had done nothing and Wesley continued to work with his friends.

Beverly was impressed with the ways in which her son was able to share his stories without ever mentioning the captain. He had bragged about some machines that they had designed and built, something to help with the harvest. Before that, they had reinforced the slave quarters to withstand heavy rains. Lately, however, he had been taciturn. Beverly looked up to see Wesley staring at his food.

"Wesley," concern clouded her voice, "are you all right?"

Wesley sat up straighter and looked her in the eye. "I'm all right, Mom. It's just, I was thinking . . . . Mom, maybe the captain and you can . . . get back together some time."

Beverly harrumphed. "I don't think so, Wes."

"Maybe not now, but maybe someday," he ventured.

Beverly stopped eating and squinted her eyes at him. "Why? Did the captain say something about me?"

Wesley had only hoped to ease his mother's suffering with the idea. He had not expected her to ask him questions. "Uh, no. It's just that . . . ."

"Just what?" Her penetrating eyes bore into him. As a mother, she knew her son well, but she was not at all accustomed to him hiding things from her.

Wesley felt a stabbing in his stomach that told him to tell the truth. More than keeping his word, however, he knew that Captain Picard was right. If his mother knew what they were doing, she could face the death penalty. He loved her too much to put her life at risk. Just like the captain, he thought.

"Well," Wesley tried to look as though he were revealing a secret, "it's just that I heard the captain arguing with Miss Ro and I thought that maybe they were breaking up or something."

Beverly returned to her dinner. "Many couples argue, Wes. It doesn't mean that they're breaking up." Then, she had a thought, a glimmer of hope. "Unless you heard them break up?"

So confident and comfortable with things—wood, machines, tools—Wesley felt utterly lost talking about affairs of the heart. "Well, no, not really. But, . . . I just thought that they sounded like they weren't all that much in love and I thought maybe that meant . . . ."

He stopped speaking. His mother wiped her face daintily then rose from the table. "Why don't you finish mine? I'm not hungry." She slid her plate toward him. As she walked by, she leaned over and kissed the top of his head. "Thank you, Wesley, that was very nice of you."

He watched her walk out to her garden. Lately, she spent hours sitting out there, even, as now, in the dark. Wesley's heart ached to see his mother in such torment. Two people that he cared about were miserable and today he had made them both feel worse. He had thought that adults had figured out things like love and romance. It was a disappointment to learn that they were no better at it than people his age.


	11. Chapter 11

Q paced the floor of his ostentatiously decorated parlor. "If they're not interested in the land or the money, and they're not in love—"

"We don't know that for sure," Vash interjected from her perch on a sofa. "That's just Marie's opinion."

Q stopped. "But we have no reason to question her judgment. She knows the man better than anyone. She lives with him."

"All right, then what are they doing if you've ruled out business and sex?"

Q returned to pacing, a habit he rather enjoyed while he thought. "What do we know about Captain Picard's sentiments?"

"His what?"

"The good captain spent some time in the North, didn't he, before he arrived here?"

Vash sighed, bored with her husband's ramblings. She would much rather have talked about what Kyle Riker was up to. "He was in the French navy. He spent some time everywhere before he settled here."

"Including the North."

"What are you getting at?"

Q sat next to her, for emphasis. "I think that the mysterious and worldly Jean-Luc Picard is an abolitionist."

Vash was shocked. "No. That's not possible. Living right here with us? He's Robert Picard's brother, for heaven's sake, and Robert was certainly not one of those." She could hardly bring herself to say the word.

"Yes, but they weren't very close brothers, were they? Did he ever visit Robert? Did Robert ever mention him?" Q knew the answers to his questions were negative.

His wife went on. "You're forgetting that he harvested a cotton crop this year just like everyone else and made a hefty profit off slave labor. That doesn't sound like an abolitionist to me."

Q sat back on the pillows and folded his arms across his chest. There were some holes in his theory, he admitted to himself.

Vash continued. "What do you think he's up to? Printing pamphlets? I'm sure if he tried to print anything in town, we'd know about it. Trying to win people over to his side? Could he be having clandestine meetings without us knowing?"

"Not likely."

"And what about Laren Ro? How does she fit into your conspiracy theory?"

Q came to life. "A-ha, she's the only part that does fit. Her father was an abolitionist from China. What if the daughter plans to carry out her father's crazy plan to free his slaves?"

"If she were going to free her slaves, wouldn't she have done so a long time ago and packed up and left? Why would she stay here, where she's clearly not happy, just to wait around for some foreigner to come and print anti-slavery pamphlets with her?"

Q perched a fist at his lips and thought. "I didn't say I had it completely figured out. But I'm getting there."

Vash smiled. She so loved his devious mind. "Why don't you let that conspiracy theory percolate a little bit and let me tell you all about someone's visit to Kyle Riker's house last Sunday afternoon?"

It was Q's turn to become bored. He rolled his eyes. "Let me guess—Kate Pulaski?"

"No, not Kate," his wife purred.

Now, Q was intrigued.

* * *

Fall turned to Winter. With a chill in the air, Beverly and Dalen treated several people with seasonal common cold complaints. They worried about the more serious occurrences of influenza, which cropped up here and there. They delivered babies and repaired broken limbs. The brown leaves fell off the trees and the ground grew hard.

Dalen's heart was breaking as he watched the woman he loved like a daughter suffer. Beverly had become quiet, closed up. Never much of a party-goer, she stopped socializing altogether. Now and then, Marie or Deanna visited her, but she never ventured out into the country unless it was for a medical call. He never heard her teasing voice, her soft laugh. She had lost weight and her typically slender frame appeared waiflike.

From time to time, Dalen saw Jean-Luc Picard in town. Sometimes, with Miss Ro. The Frenchmen nodded from a distance and Dalen always nodded back, mindful of his manners. His upbringing and decades of equanimity prevented him from striking Jean-Luc, as he sorely wished to do. A few times, he had considered approaching Jean-Luc and asking him to explain what the hell he was doing, but he always stopped himself. A part of him dreaded hearing that Jean-Luc had simply grown tired of Beverly or found Miss Ro more attractive. Besides, if he knew the truth, Dalen would have to keep it from Beverly to spare her more pain and he did not like the idea of keeping secrets from her. No, better to never ask.

Christmas Day was the day after a heavy rain and the population of the county filled the church with the spirit of the season and happiness at seeing the sun. Only two families brought a cloudiness inside. Dalen, Beverly and Wesley had arrived early and sat near the front. It was Beverly's tactical maneuver, to avoid even seeing the Picards. Lwaxanna and Deanna sat next to them, both women making a fuss over Beverly before the service began.

Try as she might, however, Beverly could feel little positive emotion. She gripped Wesley's hand during the service and gave him a smile, silently thanking him for being a rock of support during the last half of this year—a year that had begun ominously, with the tragic death of friends, soared dizzyingly with the passion of love, then tumbled rapidly, to the depths of lonely despair. She looked at Dalen and sent him thoughts of thanks as well. Without his wordless affection and steady mentorship, she would have floundered even more through her ordeal and she knew it. Beverly resolved to resume the holiday baking she had foregone this year after dinner that very afternoon. It was time to end her self-pity, she decided, and take care of the people in her life as they had taken care of her.

Several rows behind Beverly, Jean-Luc sat sandwiched uncomfortably between Marie and Miss Ro, the former not deigning to speak to the latter after a strained greeting. Not a regular attendee, Jean-Luc found his mind wandering during the sermon, to most unwelcome places. He could not help but be mesmerized by a rare opportunity to gaze upon the woman he loved, even if it was only her back. Beverly's beautiful red hair had been curled and pinned up in a modest hairstyle, exposing her alabaster neck. Her dress was a rich, dark green velvet. When she turned to look at Dalen, he glimpsed her face, which looked surprisingly thin, her high cheekbone emphasized. Even at a distance, he could see sadness in her eyes, instead of the merriment he remembered.

Thoughts of Beverly had not been as comforting as he had hoped. In the somber setting, next to Marie, wiping tears away throughout the service in her black velvet, Jean-Luc began to mourn the loss of his brother and nephew. René, a young man who had not had a chance to build his own life, see the world or fall in love. His premature death was so unfair. Robert, the formidable presence in his life, even when apart. The solid older brother who would always be there to knock him down, figuratively, and sometimes, literally. The two men were so different and so distant. Jean-Luc had never contemplated a time when Robert would be gone and he would never be able to reconcile with him, to tell him that he loved him. The weight of their deaths sank on to Jean-Luc's tired shoulders and threatened his composure. He felt his lower lip tremble, but with measured breaths and closed eyes, feigning religious ardor, he carefully returned his emotions to the old armoire where he hid them and secured the door.

Eventually, the sermon ended. Standing quickly, J.P. Hanson turned to leave and noticed his friend. "Merry Christmas, Jean-Luc, Marie. Merry Christmas, Miss Ro."

On the other side of the small church, Q heard the name and watched the exchange, noticing an awkwardness about the captain. As Vash and he rose, he called out loudly, "A Merry Christmas to our newest neighbor, Captain Picard! Or should I say, Joyeux Noel?"

This had the desired effect of turning all heads to look at the Picards. All but one. As if nothing unusual had happened during the year to estrange him from them, as if they had been friends who regularly smoked and hunted together, each of the men of the county shook Jean-Luc's hand and delivered holiday greetings. He hesitantly reciprocated.

Having been thus engaged, Jean-Luc took it upon himself to also speak with the ladies who filed out of the church. They were eager to hug Marie, even though most were cooler to her rude brother-in-law. Nella made a point of wishing him a happy Christmas and batting her eyelashes at him and Kate gave him a smile.

To a woman, they dismissed Miss Ro with the curtest acknowledgements they could manage within their code of etiquette. Ro shuffled uncomfortably next to Jean-Luc, unsure how to insert herself into the conversation. It did not take long for her to give up.

"I'm not doing this," she whispered to Jean-Luc.

"What?"

"I'm not going to stand here and pretend to like these people in the name of Christmas. I'll meet you at the carriage." And, defying all propriety, Ro fled the church.

At that moment, Wesley Crusher made his way to the Picards. "Merry Christmas, Madame Picard, Captain." He stood in front of his mother, as broad-shouldered as he could, to try to block her from seeing the captain and afford her an escape route. Marie, overcome by how much Wesley reminded her of René, felt tears on her face as she hugged him and kissed his cheeks.

Moved by his sister-in-law's grief and her joy at hugging Wesley, Jean-Luc swallowed a thick lump in his throat, held out his hand and, as Wesley shook it, said, "Merry Christmas, Wesley," as kindly as he could. He was surprised to feel a rush of pride for the young man, who conducted himself so well, a brave man who used his considerable intellect to help liberate enslaved people. He took notice, as well, at how Wesley tried to shield his mother, a good son.

With Wesley out of the way, Beverly moved forward and hugged and kissed Marie. The latter struggled to say something, to somehow communicate an apology for her brother-in-law, but, consumed by her own grief, she could think of nothing.

"Merry Christmas, Marie," Beverly said, genuinely happy to see her friend.

"Oh, Beverly." Marie, suddenly in tears, hugged her friend. "It's so difficult without them." She held her friend tightly, after months of missing her,

Beverly's eyes grew dark as she remembered her first Christmas without Jack. She understood what Marie was feeling better than anyone else right now. She held Marie and let her cry.

The men stood around the two women awkwardly. Standing behind Beverly, Dalen nodded his head at Jean-Luc—the only gesture he felt generous enough to extend—before walking out of the church. Jean-Luc did the same in response.

Fortified by her recent promise to move on, when Marie composed herself and Beverly found herself standing in front of Jean-Luc, she was ready. "Merry Christmas, Captain," she said with all the polite blankness of expression that all the other women had worn on their faces.

She moved past him before he could recover from his shock enough to extend the same wishes to her. Her coldness hurt more than seeing her in pain had.

Jean-Luc watched her stride regally out the door into the chilly winter air. He stood still, inwardly in turmoil, wanting nothing more than to follow her, tap her shoulder to stop her and prostate himself before her boots. He saw himself confessing his undying love for her and begging her to overlook his mistreatment of her. He imagined telling her everything and her forgiving him. Instead, he stood paralyzed at the end of his pew, sullenly watching the only woman he could ever love walk away.

Miss Ro watched the brief exchange between her would-be beau and Beverly from a distance, along with the other remaining churchgoers. She waited patiently next to the carriage for Jean-Luc and Marie to join her and for the former to help her up. As Jean-Luc came up to her she leaned close to him and said for his ears only, "Do I need to play the jealous belle?"

"No." He solemnly put his hat on then helped her into the carriage. Ro was struck by the mournful look on his face. Although Jean-Luc never smiled easily, she had never seen him appear so bereft. After helping his sister-in-law climb in, he sat between the two women and started the horses.

As they rode along in silence, Ro regarded her companions. Marie seemed utterly lost in her thoughts, her head turned away, her eyes on the forests they passed. Ro remembered the emptiness of her first Christmas without her parents and knew Marie was feeling it now. Jean-Luc faced the road, seemingly transfixed by his driving duties. After a cloud passed over and the sun returned, she saw tears on his cheek. He did nothing to stop their funereal march to his chin. Ro wanted to wipe them for him, but she did not.

Throughout their months-long charade, Ro had chosen not to consider her partner's longing for Beverly. For as long as she could remember, her only passion had been helping slaves to freedom. Doing this had not required any sacrifice on her part. For her new partner, however, there was a steep price to pay. Ro felt a tinge of guilt for requiring Jean-Luc to hide his wounded heart. Still, nothing was more important than saving lives. Without his help, their operation would be less effective and people would remain enslaved, to be worked like animals, beaten, separated from family and killed. What was one man's aborted love affair compared to their mission?

She patted his arm gently. "You still care for her a great deal, don't you?" She asked softly.

"I always will." His voice barely above a whisper, his face a mask of misery, as he kept his eyes on the road and drove on.


	12. Chapter 12

Over the next several weeks, the Underground Railroad ran more and more efficiently. Some combination of Miss Ro, Jean-Luc and Wesley typically smuggled escapees on to either the Picard or Ro property. Then Guinan, Worf and Geordi would take over, feeding, clothing them and leading them into the tunnels dug to conceal their movements. Taking teams from the two plantations as security, Worf would guide the escapees to the next stop on their road to freedom. Everyone felt a sense of urgency as the country appeared to be marching toward war.

When they were not occupied with their illicit activities, Jean-Luc, Wesley and Geordi helped Mr. Soong build harvesting machinery to be used on Miss Ro's land. Improving the productivity of her farm would help her to keep freedmen on her property employed and help finance her main business.

More often than he felt comfortable admitting, Jean-Luc noticed Wesley watching him. At times, he knew, the younger man was learning by his observation of Jean-Luc's technical skills or, what Jean-Luc thought of as his command style—efficiently delegating tasks to those best equipped to do them, recognizing the achievements of his workers and, he hoped, inspiring their confidence in him.

Other times, he caught Wesley stealing a glance at him unexpectedly and he wondered what Wesley was thinking. His thoughts immediately jumped to Beverly and he imagined that perhaps her son was trying to convey a secret message to him. Perhaps Beverly wanted to talk to him. Maybe she was pining away and his presence was needed immediately—discretion be damned—to save her life. He envisioned himself dropping his tools, running to his horse and riding at breakneck speed to her side.

After a while, however, Jean-Luc set aside his foolish fantasies and realized that Wesley was seeking his acknowledgement, his praise. From that moment, he made it a point to informally mentor Wesley, to teach him what he could about managing a business and a work force. Wesley still spent most of his time helping Mr. Soong and Geordi and Jean-Luc was busy throughout his large property, in his office and on errands

In time, Jean-Luc realized that Wesley was an integral part of the smuggling operation. With his engineering expertise, Wesley shored up both the new tunnel and Miss Ro's old tunnel. Even more impressive, Wesley helped secret people away, sometimes driving right through town with hidden passengers in the back of Miss Ro's wagon, on the theory that no one would suspect the young man.

* * *

It was a cold February day. Beverly wrapped her cloak more tightly around her as the wind gusted. Because Dalen was treating a house full of flu victims in town, she was driving his carriage to the far east end of the county to check on Julianna Soong, who, a neighbor boy had announced on his trip into town, had fallen and been injured.

Fewer people in the poorer eastern part of the county sought their medical services thus Beverly was unfamiliar with the narrow, winding roads. She almost drove past the unassuming, small house. She turned the horse into the short, uneven lane that led to the Soong property.

The dilapidated condition of the house and grounds startled Beverly. She had seen Juliana in church in the past and always thought of the older woman as well put together, if modest. Her image of Juliana did not match the state of disrepair of the house and yard.

Beverly climbed out of the carriage and realized that she could not recall seeing Juliana recently. Perhaps something had happened that had kept her away from church and town. Perhaps she had become infirm or immobile and unable to travel or take care of her dwelling.

Those thoughts were quickly dispelled as the older woman opened the door and waved to her. Juliana Soong was dressed as neatly as ever, with her white hair in a tidy bun.

"I was expecting Dr. Quaice." Her voice, Beverly noted, sounded strong.

"He's attending to some flu patients. He didn't want to come out and spread the disease to you." Beverly had learned long ago how to respond to people who preferred Dalen to her.

Juliana lowered her head, as if resigned to being seen by Beverly. She gestured for the nurse to follow her inside and when she did Beverly found herself surrounded by an alarming array of clutter.

Books and sewing piles competed with pillows and stacks of letters for space on tables, chairs and seemingly every piece of furniture in the cozy living area. Beverly worried that Juliana must be quite ill or severely injured to have let things go so much. She noticed that the woman's left arm was wrapped in a cloth stained brown from dried blood. She immediately began to wonder how much blood her patient had lost and if the blood loss had affected her mind.

"Why don't we sit down here, Mrs. Soong," Beverly began, although, as she looked around, she was not sure where there was enough space for them to sit, "and I'll take a look at you."

"All right." Julianna moved a couple of books and a threadbare shawl from the corner of a loveseat and sat down. She leaned forward and began to unwrap her arm, apparently presuming that Beverly, rather than sitting herself, would kneel in front of her to examine her wound.

Beverly did so. The cut was deep and needed to be cleaned and stitched. "Mrs. Soong," she said, as she set about treating it, "how did this happen?"

"Oh, it was so silly. I was fixing the roof and—"

"You were fixing the roof?"

"Yes, and I must have lost my footing. I fell in the yard and my arm landed on the edge of the shovel."

"A shovel?"

"Yes, I was going to do some gardening. I just hadn't gotten to it yet . . . ." Her voice trailed off as she looked out the window.

Beverly worked quickly and neatly.

"You know," Julianna said, "my son has a wonderful position. He works as an overseer on one of the largest plantations in the county, over at the Picard place."

"Mm-hm." Beverly did not stop or look up from her work.

"I'm so proud of him. He's so smart, a genius, really, like his late father. He's always inventing new things and coming up with new ideas. And he got a nice raise in pay from the new Picard."

Beverly said nothing.

"He works very hard over there. He doesn't get much of a chance to visit any more. But that's all right. I'm so proud of him. Marie Picard is such a sweet lady. I see her in church every Sunday. And Mr. Picard, that tall man, he has such a wonderful singing voice. He's very nice, everyone says so."

Beverly noticed that Julianna seemed to glide between the present and the past as though they were one and the same.

"I have another son. I don't know if you knew that."

"No, I didn't." Beverly did, in fact, know of her second son, but felt it best to encourage her to talk.

"He's a bad boy. He always was. We haven't seen him in years, my husband and I. He didn't get along with people around here. Some people thought he was a criminal, but of course he wasn't. He just couldn't keep up with his brother because his brother is a genius. He just felt competitive, that's all."

Although Jack and she had moved to the county after the departure of the Soongs' prodigal son, they had heard enough stories to confirm that the young man had left a trail of furious crime victims when he left the area.

"People say he's up North now. I don't know. I hope not. He's a good boy, too, just misunderstood." She paused for a spell, looking out the window as Beverly cleaned, examined and tended to her wound. "Now, my other son, he's a genius. A very sweet boy. He works over at the Picard place. Do you know Marie and Robert Picard?"

"Yes, I do."

"They're very nice people, aren't they? I see them in church every Sunday. It's not easy work either, getting all those blacks to work. They don't want to, you know. Even on a fancy place like the Picards have. It's very difficult work getting all those lazy Negroes to get up and do something. But my son does it. He's a genius."

By the time Beverly left Julianna, with promises to return to check on her arm in a week and to help plant a garden in the spring, she felt shaken. Would she end up like Julianna, living alone, with no one to talk to, no husband or friends, infrequently visited by her own genius son, slowly losing her mind? The wind blew into her face and cold tears stung her cheeks.

* * *

Jean-Luc and Guinan sat in his office, going over the books of the business and another, more important, ledger. The second book, which he kept hidden in a wall safe in the office, tracked the freed Africans from his plantation—who had left and who had remained. He also kept correspondence with those who had travelled north locked in the safe.

"Fewer than half the people have left, leaving us with a good-sized workforce. I don't expect we'll have any problem with the harvest." Jean-Luc sounded optimistic, but his tone changed. "But, still, as talk of war becomes more and more strident I worry that we should get everyone out of here."

"We've made pretty good progress," Guinan countered. "Don't forget—if everyone here disappeared in one week, that would be noticed by the powers that be."

Jean-Luc sighed. "I'm not sure how many more weeks we have left. I went to dinner with Kyle and Will Riker last night. It seems there's considerable talk among southern states about seceding from the union."

"Do you think that will really happen?"

He nodded somberly. "At first, I did not. But, after living here for a year and listening to my esteemed neighbors, who treat human beings as property, as machines they feed and clothe and work to make enormous profits, yes. I believe they will take up arms to defend the institution of slavery. And I think we must save as many people as possible before the hostilities start."

Guinan stood and peered out the window, as though she could see what was coming. "I think so, too. I think if it comes to war, it will be more terrible than any of us can imagine."

Jean-Luc caught his breath. In his time in the South, he had heard stories of African mystics who could see the future. He had dismissed them as fairy tales created by white people who did not understand African culture, yet, something about his friend always seemed different. "Guinan," he asked tentatively, "what do you see happening to your people?"

Guinan shook her head. "Not just my people, Captain. I see suffering for _all_ people in the coming years."

"Years? The union has vastly superior resources. Why wouldn't they crush us within a year, eighteen months?"

"You know the answer to that question." She turned to face him. "Southern men are going to fight fiercely for their economic advantage and for their pride. They'll be defending their land as well as their way of life. This will be a battle fought _in_ the South and it will _destroy_ the South."

Jean-Luc stared at his glass of brandy. "If you're saying what I think you're saying, . . ." he said slowly.

Guinan walked over and stood in front of his chair. "Then it's not just the black people that we have to worry about. It's the white people, too. You, Marie, Miss Ro, Mr. Soong, Wesley, . . ."

"Beverly," he said, still staring in thought. He had never considered that the union army could penetrate the South all the way to their county. He had thought it unlikely that the war could continue long enough for that type of incursion to be remotely strategic. Could Beverly, and Marie, Wesley and the others, all be in danger in the apparently upcoming civil conflict? What could he do to keep them safe?

"Dr. Quaice, Deanna Troi, Will Riker."

Jean-Luc felt a sense of duty. Guinan had foreseen the danger and now warned him of it. It was incumbent on him to do something about it. "Do you have any suggestions?"

"I would start by canning food and hiding it in the tunnels. We may have to expand them or maybe Geordi and Mr. Soong will tell us to dig separate hiding places, but I want to store food in case it becomes scarce later on."

Jean-Luc could hardly imagine a lack of food, surrounded as they were by farmland. "What else?"

"We'd have to make sure we have enough arms and ammunition to defend the property. Every man here should be armed."

"That goes without saying. What else?"

"Build stone walls. The fences we have around the property won't keep out northern armies."

"Surely, you don't think—"

"I do think they could come here. And when they do, we better have all the food, ammunition, cotton seed and people that we care about inside the walls of this property."

Jean-Luc finished his brandy in one long drink. How could he possibly get Beverly into his house to keep her safe?

"And another thing."

"Yes?"

"If you plan to combine your land with Ms. Ro's, and keep her and her people safe, and have access to her land to feed everyone and bring money in, and, above all, to keep the tunnel hidden . . . ."

"Yes?" Jean-Luc looked Guinan in the eye. It was unusual for her to pause in the middle of a thought.

"The two of you are going to have to marry."

Jean-Luc breathed in with a gasp. His charade of courting his neighbor and partner in crime had successfully concealed their work, but at a great personal cost. Although he had no intention of stopping, deep down, his heart could not let go of Beverly Crusher. Even as he processed Guinan's words and agreed with her logic, even as he imagined that, combined, the two plantations, with their staffs, could become the safest place in the county, a fortress to protect Beverly, Wesley, Marie and the others, he could not agree to marry someone else. He knew Miss Ro would readily accede to the plan, for she had no one else, nothing else in her life, besides her passion for freeing the enslaved. He chastised himself for not feeling the same way, for placing his personal feelings above the lives and the liberty of so many.

Standing above him, Guinan watched as worry and then anger crossed her boss's countenance. She understood his predicament and, not for the first time, her admiration of the man grew. His face contorted into pain, a glimpse of the torture that lived deep inside him. Watching him suffer, as he poured himself another generous drink, Guinan had an idea.

"The Picards are Catholic, aren't they?"

He nodded and took a drink, hoping the brandy would act quickly to eliminate his capacity for clear thought.

"There's no Catholic church around here."

"No," he said, "just that . . . that Protestant church everyone goes to around here. What is it?"

"Baptist," Guinan supplied. "But you'd need a Catholic church to get married in, wouldn't you?"

His only answer was to finish his brandy and pour himself another one.

Guinan continued. "Because if you had to travel to Atlanta to get married in a Catholic church, then no one here would actually witness it. No one would know if you had really gotten married or not."

Through the alcohol, Jean-Luc now had to attempt to think clearly. "But, what about Marie? She'd have to come to the wedding."

"We'll have to figure out something to tell her. Maybe explain that you're doing this for business purposes."

It might work, he thought. Marie would not be happy with him—she hadn't been since the barbecue last summer—but her anger could not be avoided. Not if they were to help people get to freedom and safety.

"But to everyone else in the county, Miss Ro and you will appear married."

 _Including Beverly._ He downed his full glass of brandy. "We'll talk to Miss Ro tomorrow. Guinan, I'd like to be left alone now." He poured another.

Guinan bowed then silently walked out, already thinking about the plans that would be needed for the scheme to work.

Jean-Luc carried his glass and the half empty brandy bottle to the small sofa along the bookcases and sat down. He took a drink then leaned forward, his head in his hands, and cried. _Beverly, if you knew how much I missed you. How much I want to be with you. Just to see your smile, to hear you tease me, to touch your hand. If you only knew how much I love you . . . ._

* * *

"Today it finally feels like spring!" Deanna exclaimed happily. She settled comfortably in Beverly's living room, next to one of the windows opened to create a cross breeze. She sipped some lemonade then picked up her sewing.

Beverly sat on the other side of the sofa with her own lemonade and sewing. "I'm so glad you could come." She smiled at her friend.

"Well," Deanna said, "I'm happy for the chance to chat with you. You've been so busy with Dr. Quaice lately and I've been . . . ."

"Yes?"

Deanna sighed. "Let's just say my mother has been keeping me busy." She gave a knowing look.

"Ah." Beverly understood—Lwaxanna's desire to marry off her only daughter was becoming an obsession several months ago when Beverly last spoke to her. She could only imagine what the scheming mother was up to now. "Anyone interesting?"

Deanna stopped mid-stitch. "There are many interesting men in and around the county."

"But . . . ."

"But, I just don't feel . . . ." She sighed. "I don't know. I don't feel that attracted to them. There are some very sweet men, like Wyatt Miller or Reg Barclay. Though, I think Wyatt's in love with someone else."

"Mm-hmm." Beverly kept sewing. "I know Reg likes you."

"There are some very successful men, like Devononi Ral."

"Apparently, he makes a lot of money. Dalen met him and told me he has businesses all over the state."

"And he's handsome." Deanna admitted.

Beverly looked up, considering it. "Yes, I suppose so."

Deanna was quiet.

"Deanna?"

"Yes?"

"What's the problem, if there are plenty of handsome, wealthy men to choose from?"

Deanna drank some lemonade. "I just . . . . I want to feel _something_ when I'm with a man. I want to feel electricity when he holds my hand. I want to look into his eyes and see his soul, his passion, his love for me. I want to feel excited when we're together and tingle with anticipation before we meet up. Do you think I'm being too picky? My mother does."

Beverly stared into space. She had tried for months to expel thoughts of Jean-Luc Picard from her mind. Better than she had ever put into words, Deanna had just explained what she felt toward him. What made him different from any other man she had ever known, even—if she were completely honest with herself—Jack, who had been a kind man and a good husband, but not someone who stirred her or made her tingle. A simple man, whose eyes just did not contain the depths of emotion and thought that Jean-Luc could communicate with a single, lingering glance.

"Beverly?" Too late, Deanna realized that she had reopened a wound. Beverly had seemed to finally be recovering from her recent heartbreak. Since the new year, she had begun to venture out in society, baking pies for the church bake sale, singing in the choir, and inviting Deanna over for visits. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." She leaned toward her friend, took her hand and squeezed it.

Beverly closed her eyes tightly and fought to contain her roiling emotions. She knew what she had to say—she only had to force it out. "Deanna, the important thing is that you don't wait too long. Find someone you love, and don't let him go, even if it means you have to pursue him, fight for him. Don't end up like me—an old woman, living all alone, left to go crazy by herself."

"What?"

Opening her eyes and exhaling, Beverly thought of a way to deflect attention from herself. "What about Will Riker?"

The question caught Deanna off guard. "Will?"

Beverly seized her advantage. "Will is handsome, wealthy and interested in you." She patted Deanna's hand to stress her point.

"You're beginning to sound like my mother." Deanna rolled her eyes.

Beverly leaned back, smiled and picked up her sewing. "Your mother and I both care about you and maybe we both know what we're talking about. Will is a good man."

Deanna hesitated. She was much more comfortable talking about Beverly's heart than her own. "I don't know. Will tends to be 'interested' in a lot of women, if you know what I mean."

Beverly considered that. Will did have a bit of a roving eye at social events, never missing an attractive young woman. With his easygoing manner, he readily talked with women. At different times, he had pursued her and Miss Ro. Yet, . . . "He's still single, though. Isn't it strange that all his flirtations have never led to marriage? Almost as if he's waiting for someone."

All of a sudden, Deanna found her sewing fascinating. She worked with her eyes on her dress.

"Do you feel something with Will?"

Deanna focused on her stitching. _Oh yes, I definitely feel something._ She looked up, ready to broker a truce. "Can we strike a deal? I won't ask you about your love affairs if you don't ask me."

The two women smiled warmly at each other, then laughed. "I agree," Beverly said, "but only if you promise to think about what I said."

Deanna had her own inspiration. "I will think about what you said on one condition."

"What condition?"

"That _you_ think about it, too. That _you_ fight for love with someone that you feel something special with."

Deanna saw her friend pale. Suddenly, Beverly seemed weak, smaller. She looked down at her lap.

Closing her eyes to hold back the tears, Beverly whispered, "I'll think about it." She had not seen Deanna's final attack coming. As morose as she felt, contemplating her old age alone, she had never imagined herself having the ability to change her situation. Despite her efforts, she could not help thinking about Jean-Luc, but she had no idea how to fight for him.


	13. Chapter 13

The dinner over, the host, hostess and guests retired to the parlor. In some circles, consuming alcohol would have been unthinkable, but this crowd preferred an after-dinner cocktail or two. Q happily served them as Vash made sure everyone was comfortable.

"Thank you," Alynna said, taking her glass. "As I was saying, I believe that it is 100% about business. Picard's harvest was larger than last year's and he got it in early. Lately, we've seen his people—that Mr. Soong and some of his slaves—over at Miss Ro's place. I think that whatever he did last year to make more money on his land he's going to try on her land."

"But, to what end? Why would he help her?" Q asked, irritated.

"Maybe because he loves her?" Vash suggested with only a half-smirk.

"I doubt that," Alynna said.

Taking a swig from his drink, Kyle added, "I doubt it, too. I think Picard's all about money. He's a military man, he's competitive. I think he's formed an alliance with Ro that will ultimately be about out-producing us and, if he beats us to the market, out-selling us."

Q sat down next to his wife with his arm outstretched along the back of the loveseat. "Let me float another idea by you." His eyebrows flitted up and down. "What if Ro and Picard are working together to help runaway slaves escape?"

Alynna smiled. "Q, you have the most vivid imagination."

Kyle chuckled.

"What's so funny?" Q asked. "We know that slaves are escaping from counties south of here. We've long suspected that someone local was helping them."

"But, typically," Kyle interrupted, "the criminals who help runaways aren't slave owners themselves."

He nodded to Alynna, admiring the cleverness of his own statement.

"But it's the perfect cover," Q insisted. "Who would suspect him if he himself owned slaves?"

Alynna shook her head. "These abolitionists are usually people of limited means and unlimited moral self-righteousness. Captain Picard doesn't strike me as either."

"He certainly has _means_ ," Q allowed, "but maybe we don't know him well enough to know how self-righteous he is."

"What about Miss Ro?" Vash wondered, swirling her drink in an unladylike fashion.

"No, and I'll tell you why," Kyle said. "Since her parents died, that girl was raised by slaves. That's all she's ever known. And they're all the property she has. It's not as though she's going to embark on a business venture, a woman alone. All she has is her land and her slaves. I think she's going to cling to them. She'd be a fool to give them up."

Q glared at him. "And how do we know she's not a fool?"

"Even if she is," Alynna answered, "Picard isn't. I can't see him sticking his neck out to help her, no matter how besotted with her he might be."

"I agree," Kyle added. "I've met with him several times and he's a military man, a businessman and a farmer. Besides, he's European. They had slaves, they understand."

"How about a friendly wager?" Vash suggested.

"Oh?" Alynna was immediately interested.

"Why don't we each bet on what we think the real reason behind their relationship is?" Vash smiled seductively on the other side of her glass.

"What does the winner get?" Kyle asked, chuckling.

Q jumped in. "To the winner go the spoils! I think a high wager is in order. What would you say to . . . $100? In gold!"

Alynna spit out her drink, causing everyone to laugh. When she was finally able to speak again, she readily agreed. "All right, Q, all right. I will take your preposterous bet only because I know I'm going to win. I bet $100 in gold that theirs is a purely business relationship."

Kyle gazed upon Alynna with a new appreciation. How is it, he wondered, that he had never noticed how her eyes danced when she laughed. Turning to his host, he bellowed, "I'm in, too, Q. I'm betting on business."

"Excellent!" Q pronounced. "I'm betting on abolitionism."

"And I," Vash said, "am betting on love."

" _You_ are betting on love?"

"Yes, darling, I am. Maybe I have a romantic streak, but I think perhaps the two eccentric loners have found one another. When they get married, I will collect."

"Oh, I don't know about that. A marriage could be about money." Alynna smiled wickedly.

"That's right. Marriage alone doesn't settle the bet." Kyle laughed at his own perceived wit. "There'd have to be children."

In her state of intoxication, Alynna found that comment hilarious. She spilled her drink as she laughed uproariously, causing everyone else to join in.

"I look forward to collecting from all of you," Q said merrily, "even my darling wife."

Now, he thought, all I have to do is prove I'm right.

* * *

The day before the big day arrived. Guinan had packed her own things and finished helping Marie pack her trunk for Atlanta. She had checked with Miss Ro and her house manager, Silva, to ensure that they were ready. She had left instructions for the dinner that was to be prepared on the day of their return.

As they had known, Marie was not at all pleased with her brother-in-law's impending nuptials. He had informed her over dinner, only a few nights before. She raised her voice, something she rarely did, and stormed away from the table after she had said her piece. Her objections were significant and her beliefs strong, but they would not prevent Marie from attending the ceremony because she considered that a family obligation and she would never act untoward toward her late husband's family. The next day, she had written a letter to Beverly so that her estranged friend could hear the news directly from her and before anyone else. Guinan carried that letter with her now, on the day before their departure.

Once everything was set at the house, Guinan walked into town and strategically ran into Holm at the general store. She took her time conversing with the man and eventually explained how she was buying items for the wedding trip. She left him with all the details his owner would demand.

Carrying her basket of purchased items, she strolled to Dr. Quaice's house. Though not afraid, Guinan paused on the front walk before climbing up to the porch in respect for the woman to whom she was about to deliver pain.

Dr. Quaice was standing in the front room of the house, checking his appointment book, when he heard someone on the porch steps. "Guinan! What a surprise. Please come in."

"Good morning, doctor. How are you these days?"

"I can't complain, not at my age. How are you?"

"I feel the same, doctor. The weather has been lovely lately, hasn't it?"

"Yes, indeed. What can I do for you?"

"I was hoping to speak with Dr. Crusher. I have a letter from Madame Picard for her."

"I'm sorry, Guinan. You just missed Beverly. She's gone out to check on Julianna Soong and told me not to expect her back until late."

"Late?"

"Yes, she said something about doing some gardening with her. Probably be good company for Julianna, living out there all alone. Why don't you leave the letter with me and I'll see that she gets it?"

Guinan thought quickly and smiled. "You know, I think I'll have Mr. Soong drive me out there. I was instructed to hand deliver the letter to Dr. Crusher and it will give Mr. Soong a chance to catch up with his mother."

Dalen beamed back at her. As the local doctor, he knew far more about everyone's business than he needed to know, including a certain son's tendency to forget to visit his mother. "Guinan, I don't know how you do it, but you always know what to do."

Guinan thought that to be an accurate statement, but knew better than to say so. "At least I always try, Doctor. That's all any of us can do. Have a good day." She bowed her head and left, leaving Dalen to watch her retreating form and reflect that the unusual woman never really comported herself like a slave.

From a distance down the country road, Guinan saw a carriage stopped near her destination. As she walked closer, she realized it was just short of the driveway to the Picard property. It was still sitting there when she approached it. She walked around to the front and, since she had had time to ponder the matter, she was not surprised to find Beverly sitting there, staring blankly in the general direction of the house, the reins lying in her hands. Her hair was styled more than usual, in soft curls, and she wore one of her better everyday dresses. Guinan sniffed a delicate floral scent as leaned into the carriage.

"The universe definitely works in mysterious ways."

Beverly started upon hearing Guinan's voice. "Guinan! Where did you come from?"

"I'm just back from town. I did some shopping and I was looking for you."

"For me?" Beverly's shaky voice and haunted eyes betrayed her lack of confidence in her plan. The sudden appearance of someone from the Picard plantation, just as she was contemplating—attempting—a visit to the house unnerved her. What did it mean? How did Guinan know she was there?

"May I?"

Beverly nodded and moved over, allowing Guinan to climb into the carriage and sit comfortably beside her.

"I have a letter for you, from Madame Picard."

Beverly felt a sense of foreboding, as though someone had died. She looked at Guinan uneasily. The dark woman was not smiling but she did not appear unkind. Still, Beverly felt frozen as Guinan set the letter in her lap. She looked down at the rose-colored envelope but made no move to open it, as though remaining still would keep her safe from its contents.

"I want to wait while you read it."

That was when Beverly knew it was bad news. Her mind worked damnably fast. Since Marie had written the letter, Marie was alive and healthy, thus the news concerned Jean-Luc. She could not imagine him in ill health or dying, therefore . . . . Without knowing how she knew, Beverly suddenly realized that he was marrying Miss Ro. It was she—Beverly—who was dying.

Her throat felt dry. She swallowed and almost thought she would faint. She was barely aware of Guinan taking the reins and turning the horse around.

"When is the wedding?" Beverly asked abruptly.

If Guinan was surprised by her prescience, she did not show it. "It will be tomorrow, in the Catholic church in Atlanta."

Beverly looked away.

Guinan calmly counted to herself, as she gave Beverly time to absorb the information. She slowly maneuvered the carriage so that she could drive it back to town. After a few moments, she spoke. "I wanted to speak to you because I have to tell you something that's not written in Madame Picard's letter."

Beverly shook her head. She did not want to hear anything that Guinan had to tell her because it would never be the words she needed to hear. She did not want to hear anything in a world in which Jean-Luc was marrying Miss Ro. "No," she said, without looking at Guinan. "No . . . ."

Guinan drove a ways down the road at a leisurely pace, putting some distance between them and the house causing so much pain.

"Do you appreciate irony, Guinan?" Beverly asked, still turned away. "If you do, I have a good one for you. I was on my way to see him. I had decided to tell him how I felt. I was ready to risk everything. But . . . ," her voice choked up, "somehow, between my house and his, my courage waned and I was trying to get it back when you found me."

"I know. That's why I said the universe works in mysterious ways." Guinan stopped the carriage under the shade of a tall oak tree. "He doesn't know that I'm doing this, but, I had to tell you."

Her words had the desired effect of getting Beverly's attention. "Oh?" Beverly asked, now looking at Guinan.

"He doesn't love her." Beverly was thankful that Guinan had not used his name. "He loves you. Very much."

Again, Guinan sat back to give Beverly time to absorb what she had just heard. The redhead did not need much time.

"Does he? Does he really? People have told me that, Guinan, or suggested it to me over the last seven months, but forgive me if I don't believe any of you. I find it very hard to believe that he could love me but marry another woman."

"Dr. Crusher—"

"I don't care what people think he feels. I haven't had a word from him. He hasn't spoken to me or written a single letter. He's stayed away from Dalen completely. After he insinuated himself into our lives and made us care about him. You saw him with me, you know how he was."

"How he still is."

"Well, I see him carrying on with someone else after he dropped me with no explanation, after he broke my heart. I trusted him, Guinan, I trusted him like I haven't trusted anyone since . . . since . . . ."

"Since your husband." Guinan handed Beverly a handkerchief, for sobs had begun to compete with angry words as the taller woman tried to speak.

Beverly let the tears and sobs come. After a short while, however, she fought to regain her composure. "Thank you. I'll launder it and have it returned," she said of the handkerchief. "I think you should go now."

"I'm not done."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not finished," Guinan said, her usually calm expression had become stern, angry.

"Guinan—"

"I sought you out today—knowing the captain would be angry if he discovered what I was doing—to try to ease your mind. I've never lied to you and I'm telling you something others have said, too, but you refuse to hear it. You're so used to suffering alone and being a martyr that you can't believe that someone loves you. In fact, he loves you so much that right now he's living in pain, torturing himself by staying away from you to protect you."

"Wha-what do you mean?"

"I mean that maybe you should trust your feelings and what people are telling you. Maybe you should trust Jean-Luc Picard and trust that things will work out in the end." She paused and stared into the younger woman's eyes, red from crying. "Until now, you couldn't have known that he was staying away from you for a reason, a greater good. But now that I'm telling you, you can take some solace from knowing that you have his heart and, eventually, some day, you'll have him, too."

Beverly sat silently, again on the precipice of tears, but looking across a chasm of heartache, trying to make out love on the distant other side. Was what Guinan saying true? Why would the slave woman sit and talk with her if not to impart a message? But, Beverly could not comprehend what "greater good" would make someone stay away from the person he loved. Certainly, she thought, there was nothing that she would let come between her and—wait, there was one thing, one person, who would always be more important than her affairs of heart. Wesley.

Did Jean-Luc have a _child_ somewhere that she did not know about? Or, was there someone else he cared about, like a child? Marie? That did not make sense. Marie was her friend and would not stand in the way of their romance.

"I don't understand," she whispered helplessly to Guinan.

"You're not supposed to understand." Guinan's aura of wisdom had returned. "You can't understand because you don't have and can't have all the facts. I know that disturbs your scientific mind . . . "

It certainly does, Beverly thought.

". . . but you have to have faith."

"Faith?" Beverly shook her head, unbelieving.

"Yes, faith in Captain Picard."

Beverly scoffed.

"I know you're not used to matters of faith. But, this time, your medical science and logic won't help you. You'll have to trust love and have faith."

Still skeptical, Beverly shook her head.

"I should be going." Guinan rose.

Of all the incomprehensible things she had just heard, Beverly's logical mind framed a thought around one particular aspect in need of proof, an aspect that, if true . . . . "Guinan, wait. You said that, some day, we'll, we'll be together." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "How do you know that?" Guinan's serious yet mysterious manner reminded Beverly of stories her slave patients would tell, of African priestesses practicing magic and seeing the future. Was Guinan one of those?

In response, Guinan simply shrugged. "I can't explain how I know. I just know." She turned to leave. "Remember what I said, Dr. Crusher." As calmly as though they had been discussing the weather, she climbed down from the carriage and walked away, back toward her home.

Beverly's hands unconsciously wrung the moist handkerchief that she still held. Lost in thought and emotion, she sat staring at the empty road, as if the air itself could somehow answer her burning questions. She did want those elusive facts. The strange woman's words made her realize how much she relied on scientifically verifiable facts, how her life was governed by logic and by the head, rather than the frightening emotional power of the heart.

Beverly knew why that was. In her life filled with loss, logic and science had never hurt her. They were her shelter from the pain that her heart caused her time and time again. For years, they had protected her from the injuries of romance. Now, with a fresh wound, she was being advised let faith heal her. Any practitioner of medicine would have difficulty following that counsel.

As she had done on Christmas, only a few short months earlier, Beverly resolved to move forward. To some extent, she had succeeded in re-entering social life in the county, but her feelings for Jean-Luc had never completely disappeared. Whatever Guinan's mysterious message meant, the fact was that the man she loved was marrying someone else. She knew that she would be subjected to another round of pitying sympathy from everyone she met—shopkeepers, patients, other women. She would have to be prepared for it. She silently thanked Guinan for the early warning of his upcoming wedding, then picked up the reins.

This time would have to be different. This time, she would have to pick herself up from the dusty ground where she'd just landed and walk through the rest of her life with her head held high. She resolved to stop loving Jean-Luc, whatever it took.


	14. Chapter 14

Marie had been furious when Ro insisted that no one witness her marriage. She explained that it was Chinese custom—a lie that Marie would never challenge or verify—for couples to wed alone and to celebrate with family afterward. Leaving Marie fuming to Guinan that it was American, or possibly French, culture that should dictate the wedding ceremony, Ro and Silva had gone alone to meet Jean-Luc, acquiescing at least to Marie's firm belief that it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.

The Catholic church was unlike any Ro Laren had ever seen in her life. Made of stone, rather than wood, and enormous, the church was dark inside as the light was kept out by ornate stained glass windows. She spent a good deal of time staring at the windows, with their depictions of Jesus and Mary. She wondered what the holy family would think of their grand deception. Although a lie was a sin, it was a lie told for the greater good of saving people's lives. Ro did not know much about the Bible, having quit Sunday school after her parents' deaths, but she remembered Jesus defending the poor, the sick and the meek. She breathed in deeply, reassured that her life's work would earn praise from the Lord, as she gazed up into his image on the window above their pew.

Beside her, Jean-Luc kneeled with his eyes closed and his head bowed in prayer, silent. She knew that their sham marriage, as brilliant as the idea was, was very difficult for him. After spending an hour sitting in the church, during which time the ceremony was ostensibly taking place, he would walk out as a married man to the rest of the world. While she did not care who thought she was married to him, Ro knew that he cared very deeply about one woman's feelings.

After he had knelt there for several minutes, maybe twenty, Ro estimated, she began to worry that he would remain like that for the entire hour. With her discomfort at her surroundings growing, she was not sure she could even stay in the imposing house of worship that long. She certainly could not do so without talking to pass the time.

Feeling her hands sweating, Ro removed her white gloves and set them next to her on the red velvet cushion of the pew. She stared at the back of Jean-Luc's head as he continued to kneel. To speak to him, she would have to kneel herself, on the odd cushioned rail attached to the pew in front of them. A few other people were scattered throughout the sanctuary, lost in their own prayers. The large space was quiet. She would have to speak quietly.

Jean-Luc smelled the faint residue of incense in the semi-lit church. He felt transported halfway around the world, back to the church of his childhood in Labarre, which he had attended every Sunday. He imagined returning there, with Beverly as his bride, the two of them speaking French as the local priest, who had long since expired, married them. He would hold her gently and kiss her beautiful lips, then turn to the congregation, which would include Robert and his parents, and proudly introduce them to his wife.

He heard a rustle of clothing next to him and realized that Miss Ro had joined him.

"Captain, I—I just wanted to tell you a few things," she began, "while we're here."

He was unsure if he needed to say anything or give her permission to speak. When he did not respond, she simply resumed.

"I know that it's been hard for you, pretending to court me. I can only imagine how you must feel pretending to get married. I mean, . . . I really can't imagine how you feel because I don't love anyone the way you love Beverly.

"But, I want you to know, if it means anything to you at all, that I think you're a great man. With your help, we went from rescuing tens of people to hundreds. You're very smart and dedicated and, maybe I'm thinking this because of where I am right now, but you were really a godsend to us. That you had to sacrifice your happiness for the chance for others to be happy only makes you more admirable.

"Captain, you're the bravest man I know and I only wish that my father had had a chance to meet you."

Jean-Luc heard her sniffle and realized she was crying. He unclasped his hands and took her nearest hand in his.

"I feel so ridiculous," Ro said, wiping her tears with her other hand, "crying like this when my dream has come true."

He did not know what she meant, but suddenly feared that she was speaking of marriage. "Your dream?"

"Yes, saving as many people as I could from slavery."

He watched her for a moment, battling against her emotions, staunching the unfamiliar tears. He helped her up to sit on the pew, pulled his handkerchief out of his breast pocket and gave it to her. She nodded her thanks and covered her face with it.

Jean-Luc turned to face the altar. He spoke to her softly, as he never had before to her. "Laren, I don't know your religious beliefs, but if you do believe in heaven, as I do, then I hope you share my feeling that your father is watching over you from above. I think he is very proud of you, of the strong, brave woman you've become. You alone, among the people of your county, have stood up for the human beings suffering the indignity of slavery and you alone have fought for them. And freed them. That is a powerful legacy for your father. You've become the best daughter he could have ever wanted."

Ro felt a sudden urge to get away. She moved abruptly, surprising Jean-Luc, when she stood and walked to the end of the pew. His eyes followed her as she strolled, as if sightseeing, looking at the paintings, statuary and stained glass, as though she were interested in them.

His face a knot of tightly controlled tension, Jean-Luc found he could not spare any further sympathy for Ro, so consumed by pity for his own torment as he was. He looked down, at his wedding suit, the tails he had worn on the day he had met Beverly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the small bouquet of flowers that Guinan had made for Ro. How he wished Beverly were holding it now, sitting beside him.

* * *

The Ladies Auxiliary Sewing Circle was abuzz with the news. "It happened last week," Lwaxanna insisted. "Holm saw Guinan in town and she told him everything."

"Married in Atlanta?" Nella sounded almost dreamy. "It must have been beautiful."

"Sounds like it was a very hurried affair," Vash said as she pulled a stitch out. "I wonder if they _had_ to get married." She looked up to see Kate's face turn red.

"I'll be sure to call on the new bride in five months or so," Alynna said, sparking giggles from Vash and Lwaxanna.

Next to her mother on their largest flowered sofa, Deanna sighed to herself. If they hadn't been hosting the group, she would not have attended. Deanna had finally exhausted her tolerance for their criticizing and gossiping. They reacted to Miss Ro and Captain Picard marrying like sharks circling prey.

Vash smiled smugly. "I had a feeling there was a real romance there. Some people doubted that they were in love."

Alynna took the bait. "I still doubt it. As I've said before, marriages occur for many reasons, including land grabs."

"I heard," Nella said, "that Captain Picard moved into Miss Ro's house, instead of the other way around. Is that true?"

"Yes," Alynna confirmed. "Some of my field hands saw him moving things into her house."

"I wonder why."

Lwaxanna said, "Oh, I'm sure it's for poor Marie's sake. I know the last time I spoke to her she was just furious with her brother-in-law for taking up with Miss Ro. Can you imagine how awful it would be for that woman to move into Marie's house?"

"It's good to know he has some sensitivity to others' feelings," Kate sniped.

"Poor Beverly," Lwaxanna moaned. "That poor dear soul, to have trusted him like that only to have him . . . oh! I'm sure I don't know what I ever saw in him, but I'm glad that my daughter wasn't involved with him at all."

The other women looked up at Deanna, catching her by surprise. "Yes, I'm still here. And still single," she said, not at all saddened by her status.

"Still single," Lwaxanna repeated, as though reading a death sentence.

The women commiserated with Deanna, assuring her that she would find someone. Politely accepting their condolences, Deanna resolved to see Beverly as soon as she could to check on her. Knowing how her friend felt, Deanna was very worried about her spirits.

* * *

"So, the wall can be built before we need everyone in the fields, but only if we start immediately," Noonien Soong concluded. He looked at his colleagues for confirmation. Wesley nodded. Although he did not see Soong's gesture, Geordi nodded as well, causing Jean-Luc to marvel yet again at how the three men worked together as a team, almost three cogs of the same machine.

"Very well," Jean-Luc said. "Let's get started immediately. Thank you, gentlemen, for your efforts in designing this so quickly."

The three stood to leave, Soong helping Geordi around the table in the captain's office.

"Uh, Wesley," Jean-Luc said, somewhat awkwardly, "could I have a moment with you?"

"Sure, Captain." Wesley had been dreading this moment since the captain and Miss Ro returned from Atlanta. Word of their marriage had spread like wildfire through the county and, of course, his mother had heard.

"Please, sit down." The captain directed him to the small sofa by the bookshelves and joined him there.

"Yes, sir?"

Jean-Luc clasped his hands together then began to wring them nervously. "Wesley, I hate to put you on the spot, but I was wondering if, . . . well, if your mother had heard about Miss Ro and me, um . . . ."

Wesley helped him out. "Yes, sir she heard. Madame Picard wrote her a letter about it."

"Oh?"

"She actually found out the day before you left."

"She did?"

"Yes." Wesley knew what the captain wanted to know and decided to spare him further suspense. "Mom told Dr. Quaice and me she doesn't want to talk about it. But, she seems to be kind of coping with it."

"She does?"

"She's just made herself very busy lately, gardening and experimenting with plants and herbs, canning vegetables, things like that."

Jean-Luc nodded, although he did not quite know what to make of Wesley's report. Was Beverly able to cope so well because she no longer had feelings for him? Surely, an intelligent woman like Beverly would relinquish any feelings she had for a man once he was married—unambiguously bound to another woman. All these months that he had held out hope for her, for a future with her, as improbable as that had seemed—what had he done?

He reined his thoughts in and quickly composed his face into its usual mask of stoicism, covering any sign of the strength of his emotions, even as he continued to discuss them.

"Wesley, as you know, but the others do not, Miss Ro and I are not romantically involved." He paused, re-considering whether he should continue with his plan to share the truth with the young man he had come to think of as a son. He believed it was his instinct, rather than his heart, urging him to reveal what he hoped Wesley might somehow communicate to his mother. "We, uh, we didn't actually get married."

"I know."

"You know?" Jean-Luc was shocked. "How did you know?"

"I figured it out."

"You did?"

"Well, I figured that you were claiming to be married so that you could combine your lands and the farming operations for a higher yield."

Jean-Luc stared at the young man with astonishment and a bit of pride at his powers of deduction. "Yes," he acknowledged. "Also, we wanted to combine the lands for security reasons, in advance of the conflict that we believe will be upcoming."

"Conflict?" It was Wesley's turn to be surprised.

Jean-Luc leaned back into the sofa cushions. In some ways, Wesley seemed like a boy to him, innocent and unexperienced in the world, never having left the cocoon of his home state or experienced great adventure. Yet, Wesley was a teenager, about the same age that he was when he joined the French navy, and he may soon have to take on even more responsibility than that to which he was accustomed. Better to have him prepared, Jean-Luc decided.

"Wesley, let me tell you what's going on in other parts of the South and in the nation's capital." He rose and walked over to the shelf above his desk that held his brandy and returned with the bottle and two glasses. If he were going to give the boy the truth about their situation, he might as well let him drink like a man.

* * *

The numbers were staggering. News of escaped slaves from all across Georgia, and some from as far away as Mississippi. Q paced in the office of his cousin, Sheriff Q, currently occupied at his desk with extracting an errant piece of his lunch from between two molars with a toothpick.

"How can you have no idea where these criminals are passing through the county?" Q demanded.

Sheriff Q shrugged and continued picking.

"You don't have a single clue as to how they get through the county to the lake and the Carolinas?"

"It's not that simple, Q. First, we thought they were going across the lake. Then, it looked like they were moving across the land. These abolitionists are sneaky. They change their routes. It's impossible to tell what direction they're coming from or going to." He lost his train of thought as the implement successfully got underneath its prey.

"But it's your job to find those routes and seal them off. And arrest the criminals."

"I know that, but my main duty is to the people of this county and slaves aren't escaping from around here."

Q was outraged. "You have a duty to return fugitive slaves and arrest abolitionists who help them! No matter where they come from."

"I know, I know." Sheriff Q whittled away at the stuck morsel. "I'm not saying that I'm not trying to catch them. I'm just saying that I'm not trying hard."

"Why the devil not?"

"Look, Q, I have other priorities in keeping law and order in this county."

Q approached his cousin and leaned over his desk, menacing. "Priorities such as regular visits to Nella Darren?"

Caught off guard, Sheriff Q stopped his excavation. "I wouldn't call them regular . . . ."

"Every Tuesday and Friday night for dinner for the last two months?"

"Well . . . Nella's a really good cook. Anyway, I'm not neglecting my law enforcement duties. I have to handle drunks, thieves and the white trash that come through here all the time. I do a fair number of evictions. The other day, a horse got loose over at—"

"I don't want a list of every granny you've helped cross a street. Maintaining the integrity of our system of slavery is the foundation of our society. If there's a crack in that foundation, no matter where it occurs, it threatens the entire building. Right now, that crack is widening and it won't be long before we fall right through it."

Sheriff Q smirked. "Come on, Q, don't you think you're being a little dramatic? We haven't had an escape round these parts since . . . since the brother of that guy on the Picard place, that Worf. What was his name?"

"Kern. Yes, he escaped from Kyle Riker and Kyle's still mad about that." He straightened. "Q, you leave me no choice. I'm taking my concerns directly to Senator Riker. If we have to, we'll bring in the militia to get to the bottom of this."

Sheriff Q went back to picking at his tooth. "The militia is a joke. A bunch of old veterans from the war with the Indians marching around to get ready to fight the Yankees. If they couldn't stop the abolitionists down in Cobb County, what makes you think they're going to up here?"

"They make arrests in Cobb County. They thin the ranks of the criminals. We could at least do that. I've a mind to start my own patrols."

"Well, good luck with that." Just then, the toothpick freed the stuck piece of food, which turned out to be meat. Pleased, Sheriff Q savored the taste as he swallowed it.


	15. Chapter 15

Vash rolled her eyes at her husband.

"I wish you would stop this nonsense. Alynna says they're building new slave quarters and plowing more land. They're building a stone wall along the roads around the whole plantation. So, clearly, they're working their slaves pretty hard. She says that he lives in Miss Ro's house but he works in Robert's old office. Every evening, he enters the Ro house for supper and he comes out every morning.

"I'd say that's pretty conclusive evidence that the two of them are married slave owners, not abolitionists. Honestly, Q, I think you're becoming obsessed with Jean-Luc Picard."

"I'm not obsessed," Q immediately protested. Usually, when he lay like this, on their longest sofa, in their most ornate parlor, with his head on his wife's lap, with her playing with his hair, he felt much more relaxed. Today, however, the exchange with his cousin had left him agitated. "I'm merely watching the trend of increased numbers of fugitives and the sight of suspicious neighbors and putting two and two together."

"And coming up with ten instead of four. Q, there's nothing going on there. Even if there were, why do you have to worry about it? That's your cousin's job. It's not affecting us."

Q sat up. "That's just my point. It _is_ affecting us because it undermines the entire system. What will happen when we're at war? How many abolitionists live among us? Enough to start a rebellion throughout the county? Throughout Georgia? Throughout the South?"

"Now you're scaring me."

"You should be scared. How many Negros live among us? Do you have any idea? What would happen if abolitionists armed them all with weapons, with guns? Do you think the two of us would stand a chance against the hundred Negros who live in the ditch only acres away from this house?"

Vash stood up. "I'm not going to sit and listen to this. There is no uprising and Picard is not an abolitionist. Your patrols—you and those other men—patrolling the county all night long are preposterous. You should be more worried that nothing will get done on your own property when you're upstairs all day catching up on your sleep."

"I suppose I won't be able to patrol the whole night." Q rose and Vash swiftly turned her back on him. He put his arms on his wife's shoulders. "I'll have to come home at some point while you're still in bed," he said suggestively in her ear.

Vash pulled away. "Don't bother." She looked him straight in the eye before leaving the room.

* * *

While her mother was in Atlanta visiting relatives for a few days, Deanna hosted Beverly for a walk through their gardens, knowing how much Beverly loved flowers, and a luncheon. Afterward, the two women sat comfortably on the verandah enjoying the beautiful spring day and chatting.

Deanna was in the middle of recounting a story of road distress. "Luckily, Homn was able to swerve and miss the animal, but one of the carriage wheels ended up in a ditch on the side of the road."

"Oh, no."

"And there it was, nearly dark."

"What did you do?" Beverly asked. She admired Deanna's practical nature and wisdom, but she could not picture the dainty younger woman handling a transportation issue.

"I don't think I ever would have come up with a solution, other than walking the five miles home. I certainly couldn't ride the horse and Homn couldn't leave me alone. We were only there for a few minutes when . . . ," she paused for dramatic effect, "someone rode up."

"Really? Who?" Beverly felt the suspense building.

Deanna smiled. "Will Riker."

"No!"

"Yes! He was riding one of his horses and—"

"Wait—he wasn't driving his carriage?" Having been rescued by Will herself in his carriage, Beverly had a mental image of the scene that was different from her friend's description.

"No, he was on horseback." This detail had not struck Deanna as unusual until Beverly highlighted it. Her brief frown quickly faded as she continued her story. "Anyway, he naturally stopped to see if he could help."

"Naturally."

"But Homn and he weren't able to move the wheel. He even had the idea to tie his horse to the carriage to see if the two of them could pull it out, but that didn't work either."

"So, how did they get it out?"

"Well, Will thought he could pull it out with a team of two more horses, work horses from his land. Since it was getting dark, he offered to take me home while Homn kept an eye on the carriage. Then, he would go back to his place, get the team and return to pull the carriage out."

"But, how was he going to get you home?"

Deanna surprised Beverly by blushing. "On his horse."

Beverly's eyes widened. Deanna did not care for riding horses and had not done so in Beverly's memory. "How in the world did that work out?"

Deanna sighed. "Extremely well, actually. He helped me climb into the saddle, side-saddle, of course, which involved him lifting my foot by the ankle—"

"He touched your ankle?"

"Mm-hm, and lifted it into the stirrup. Then he put his hands on my waist and lifted my whole body up on to the horse."

"Oh, my."

"Then he climbed on behind me, took the reins and we rode off." Deanna looked all around the verandah to make sure there were no eavesdroppers. Although the women were completely alone, she still lowered her voice. "Beverly, I was sitting in his arms, right up against his chest."

Beverly smiled. Will was certainly a handsome man, with a broad chest and strong arms. "You rode all the way home like that?"

"Yes, we did." Deanna took another look around. "Beverly, I felt something . . . something very unusual."

"Oh, what?"

Deanna looked down, forcing Beverly to lean in to hear her quiet voice. "I felt like I couldn't catch my breath, I was breathing so hard. And, and . . . I felt something else, under my dress."

Beverly put a hand on Deanna's arm. "It's all right."

"No, it's not. I know we're not supposed to feel things down there, much less talk about them."

Beverly felt her skin warm as she blushed with the memory of a man who made her feel that way under her dress.

"And when he kissed me, it got worse."

"He kissed you?"

Deanna nodded. "Right before we rode into our driveway. Beverly, I think I felt . . . ." She looked up at her friend. "In a way, this is a medical question."

Beverly nodded her encouragement.

"Something happened to me. I felt, it felt like I was suddenly relieving myself, but it wasn't exactly that. But, my bloomers were a little wet—why are you smiling?"

Beverly patted her arm. "It's perfectly normal."

"It is?"

"Yes, it's what happens when a woman is very attracted to a man. Especially if he's physically close to her like that. It's the body's way of preparing for . . . a man."

Deanna looked at her blankly.

"It's like . . . . You know how when you smell food cooking, your mouth starts to water and the saliva helps you to chew your food."

"What?"

Beverly suddenly feared that she would have to explain an aspect of human biology to Deanna that she had assumed Deanna understood. Of course, the younger woman had never been married, but, surely her mother had had a discussion with her. As soon as she formed the thought, however, Beverly recalled her nana explaining the facts of life shortly before her wedding.

"Deanna, I think this is a conversation you should have with your mother."

"My mother?" Deanna looked alarmed at the prospect. "My mother's main topic of conversation with me is marriage, such as when am I going to have one. If I mention Will or, worse, my body and Will, I'll never hear the end of it. She'll hound me and she'll hound Will and his father. You know my mother."

Beverly knew Lwaxanna. "But this isn't something people usually talk about."

Deanna gave her a pleading look. "I know. That's why I asked you. You're the only one I trust to answer my questions and keep my secret. Why did my body do that when I was close to Will? Has that ever happened to you?"

"Oh yes." Beverly thought immediately of Jean-Luc and prepared herself for the pain that his memory always brought. She was surprised to find herself instead falling into a happy memory. It felt so easy and comfortable that she decided to share it. "One time, Dalen, Marie, Jean-Luc and I rode to a concert. I sat next to Jean-Luc and, after a while, he held my hand. The physical contact with him and the proximity nearly made me dizzy."

Watching her friend look off into the distance in reverie, Deanna thought Beverly looked as though she were getting dizzy right there.

"I definitely felt a . . . stirring there," Beverly confessed. "On the way home, I leaned against his shoulder and I could smell him—a clean scent with a hint of musk. I felt that, once I laid my head there, where I could feel him and smell him, I couldn't move it. I fell asleep and dreamed about him."

Deanna was riveted. "Were your bloomers, you know . . . ?"

Beverly nodded. "Oh, yes. But, with Jean-Luc, even much less physical contact could do that to me. I remember the first time that we exchanged books, I accidentally touched his hand and . . . ." Beverly felt very warm. "Even the first night that I met him, when he kissed my hand, I felt something under my dress and, well, it had been a very long time since a man made me have to wash my bloomers."

Deanna giggled and, after a moment, Beverly joined in.

* * *

The pain threatened his consciousness. In all his years in the navy, despite many injuries, he had never been shot. He hoped that lying on his back would slow his bleeding until help arrived—if help arrived. He resolved to keep quiet and grimaced in the dark. Sweat slid down his forehead and into his eyes in the heat of the tunnel.

Beside him, Worf tried to calm the other victim down. The man cried out to his wife, and his pleas caused her to cry hysterically. Miss Ro urged them both to whisper, to avoid detection. She kept glancing in the direction of the tunnel entrance, as if she did not want to miss any activity there. She hoped for someone to help them, but knew that a visitor could just as easily be someone come to arrest them.

"Worf, talk to me," Jean-Luc said, hoping for some distraction.

Worf wanted to comply with the request, but was utterly stumped as to how to do so. "Talk? About what?"

Jean-Luc fought to focus on conversation, rather than pain. "Anything. Anything at all." He remembered something about which he had been curious. "Tell me about your wife. How did you meet her?"

Worf grew uneasy. He looked up at Miss Ro as if searching for a reprieve. She nodded at him to answer. He told the story haltingly. "I met K'Ehleyr while I was living . . . on another plantation. She worked in the fields, as I did. K'Ehleyr was tall, thin and strong. She had lighter skin because . . . ." He looked up to Miss Ro and the escaped woman for confirmation that it was all right to divulge one of the South's dirtiest secrets. Ro somberly nodded in reply. "Her father was a slave owner who . . . forced himself on her mother."

"Oh." Jean-Luc frowned. He had not thought of such a thing happening. "Go on."

"K'Ehleyr was not an . . . easy person to live with. She had strong opinions on how men and women should get along. She was very intelligent, but she saw herself as my equal." Worf paused to think about his wife's attributes. He did not think of her often, preferring to live in the present and avoid unpleasant memories that could only bring him pain. "I can see now that she was very wise.

"We lived together as husband and wife for only a short time before I was . . . _sold_ ," he said the word with a potent disgust that sounded like a threat, "to your brother. I did not know that she had given birth to our son until she died. My brother, Kern, was with her at her death and he vowed to bring Alexander to me.

"Late one night, Kern and Alexander escaped from their . . . _master's_ land and came here. Kern knew of the Railroad and had decided to head north to freedom. He asked me to come with him, but . . . I could not risk Alexander's life on the journey and I could not abandon my work here on the Railroad."

"What happened to your brother?"

"He travelled to Canada. He has joined the army and trains former slaves to be soldiers. Just in case."

His side hurt. Jean-Luc prompted Worf, "How did she die?"

"I was told that she was injured while trying to escape, but . . . ."

"But that wasn't the truth?"

"No, it was not. I later learned, from my sources, that she had fought _her_ owner who had tried to force himself on her. K'ehleyr was strong and she injured him. He did not have her, but, as punishment, he had her killed."

Jean-Luc was appalled. Worf's story was successfully distracting him from his pain. "Worf, who was this man, who tried to . . . ." He could not bring himself to say it, especially in mixed company. "Who had her killed?"

Worf felt his face hot with anger as he re-lived the worst moment of his life.

"Kyle Riker."

The name startled Jean-Luc. This was the man with whom he had been spending time, learning about the mind of the South. Kyle was an intelligent man, charming in some ways, ambitious and worldly. How could he be the man of Worf's story? An owner and seller of human beings yes, Jean-Luc had known that, but a rapist and a murderer? It seemed far out of character for the man he knew as a state senator. Yet, he had no reason to doubt Worf's credibility—indeed, he did not doubt it.

"So much for the honor of the southern gentleman planter," Jean-Luc said.

They fell into a silence that only reinforced the direness of their predicament, the earth walls surrounding them, the blood they could not stop from flowing from the two open wounds. The lack of sounds, good or bad, indicating someone entering the tunnel.

Rubbing the back of the frantic woman next to her to calm her, Ro tried to keep the semblance of conversation to keep all their minds off the life-threatening injuries of the two men. "Captain, you must have travelled to some interesting places in your life. Tell us about the places you've been."

Jean-Luc swallowed. He felt thirsty. "Mexico."

"Mexico? I bet that was an interesting place."

He nodded. "Beautiful."

"Where else have you been?"

He faltered, thinking through the ache in his side. "Africa, Algiers."

"What was that like?"

"Hot. Old city. Very cosmopolitan."

Worf fixated on the very idea. "You have been to Africa?"

Jean-Luc looked at him. "Yes, and perhaps one day, you will go there as well. We could travel together. Beyond the city, there's a vast desert and these animals, like horses . . . ." He started to fall asleep.

"Worf, shake him awake!" Ro said urgently. "He has to stay awake." If pressed, Ro could never say how she knew that, but it occurred to her to be the right medical treatment.

"Captain," Worf said as he jostled the smaller man's shoulder. "Captain!"

Jean-Luc stirred.

"How would we travel there?"

"Where?" Jean-Luc sounded groggy.

"To Africa."

"By ship, of course." Jean-Luc seemed to find himself somewhat. "That's what I need, a ship. Life is much easier on the water. Not like here, not at all."

"I have never been on a ship," Worf said.

Jean-Luc nodded. "I know, but you'll take to it. You would be one of my officers."

"Officers?"

"Oh, I forgot. We won't be in the navy. You'll be my first mate. That means you'll be in charge of the crew."

Worf thought the captain must be delirious. No white man that he had ever met would put a black man in charge of a ship's crew or any other kind of crew. "I would be proud to . . . serve with you, captain."

"Likewise, Worf, likewise." Jean-Luc moaned

"It won't be long now," Ro said, although she had no idea if that were true.

"Worf," Jean-Luc said, "I'm sorry you were separated from the woman you loved. I know how that feels."

The injured fugitive cried out from his pain, clutching his bloody abdomen.

"Oh, praise the Lord, praise Jesus, help us," the distraught wife prayed.


	16. Chapter 16

"Mom!" Wesley yelled up the stairs then pounded on his mother's bedroom door as soon as he reached it. "Mom, wake up!"

Beverly woke in an instant. "Wesley! What is it? What's wrong?"

Her son opened the door, the lantern in his hand illuminating his worried face, dirt-streaked face and clothes covered in—

"Blood!" Beverly exclaimed as she climbed out of bed. "What happened?"

"I'm all right. It's not me." Wesley tried to calm her down, but he was breathing heavily from the run. "You have to . . . get dressed and . . . come with me . . . right away. It's an emergency."

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on." Beverly folded her arms across her chest. Wesley had never gotten into any trouble that could lead to bloody clothing in the middle of the night. She did not like what she was seeing one bit.

"Mom, please. I'll tell you on the way. Please get dressed and come with me."

"Is someone sick?"

"No," he panted, "gun shots."

"Gun shots? What are you mixed up in?"

"Please, Mom. They'll die if you don't help them!"

"Who?" Her mind reeled—which of her son's associates could have been in a gun fight?

Wesley paused just slightly in discomfort. Then he pushed it aside with a shake of his head. "A man you don't know and . . . Captain Picard."

Beverly's eyes widened at his name. At first, Wesley could not tell if her reaction was anger or concern, but he did not have to wonder long. "Go downstairs and get my medical kit while I get dressed. Then go over and wake Dr. Quaice." She started to pull clothing out of her bureau.

"I can't get Dr. Quaice." Wesley was still panting from his run home and up the stairs and holding his side where a stitch had formed.

"Why not?"

"Mom, we were breaking the law."

She felt a knot in her stomach. What on Earth had Jean-Luc Picard gotten her son involved in? What could it have been that had gotten him shot? As soon as she voiced the thought in her head, she knew the answer.

"Go, get my bag. I'll be dressed in a moment and I'll come down."

Despite his promise to explain everything to his mother on the way, Wesley was too nervous to talk much as they snuck, on foot, then on horseback, and finally, on foot again, from the back yards in town to the woods out in the countryside. At one point, they crouched behind a toppled tree, hiding as two men rode past on the highway mere yards away from them. Beverly thought she heard the sheriff's voice, which did not do anything to settle her stomach. They waited until the voices and hoof beats faded into the distance, then gingerly moved through the forest to the roadside.

Wesley hesitated out of fear of capture, then darted forward quickly and silently across the road to the Picard property. He felt his mother behind him. He had estimated perfectly—they were right in front of the shrubbery with the opening. Wesley pushed himself through and held out a hand for his mother.

Beverly thrust her bag through the shrub first, then followed, surprised at being able to crawl through without getting stuck. Apparently, whatever Jean-Luc had been up to, he had planned it well.

 _Jean-Luc._ Despite her recent efforts to banish him from her thoughts and her heart, Beverly felt an acute worry for him and a growing fury toward him. If her guess was correct, his past affront—as much as it had hurt her—was tiny compared to this new provocation, involving Wesley in the most dangerous undertaking imaginable. Yet, the thought of him dying of a gunshot wound filled her with dread for reasons she could not quite understand. She _had_ to get there in time. She _had_ to be able to save him.

Still too nervous to explain, lest they be heard, Wesley led his mother quietly across the Picard plantation, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. He gave her credit for hiding, crawling and, at times, running along with him like a criminal, without protest. He was proud that she trusted him enough to follow him without questions.

At the opening to the tunnel, Wesley held the lantern down into the edge of the hole and lit it, illuminating the dirt floor below. Some of the light escaped out of the hole and he saw his mother's questioning look. He tied a rope around the lantern and lowered it.

"Down there," he whispered.

Beverly dropped her medical bag down first, then, with Wesley's help, lowered herself. She dangled for a moment, holding on to the ground around the hole, then grabbed ahold of the rope, one hand at a time. Unsure how to proceed, she hugged the rope and wrapped her legs around it. Her arms felt the strain of supporting her body. She tried to move down the scratchy length of it, but her dress got caught and bunched up around her thighs. The rough material of the rope bothered her and—surprised at her ability to think rationally—she realized that she would need to use her hands to save lives, including Jean-Luc's. She could not worry about cutting a finger on the rope. Taking a deep breath, Beverly let go and just dropped. She landed on the dirt floor, next to her bag, and noticed that the roof of the tunnel was high enough for her to stand straight up. Wesley quickly jumped down to join her. With the lantern in front of her, she walked into the tunnel.

Another light was lit several yards away, illuminating the people taking refuge in the dark. Beverly immediately recognized Miss Ro, who sat next to a black woman. In front of her, a black man, whimpering and obviously in pain, lay. Next to him sat Worf, and in front of Worf lay . . .

"Jean-Luc." She hadn't meant to say his name. She knelt down at his side and lifted the lantern to examine his wound. He had been shot on the left side of his torso. Handing the light to Worf, she ripped his bloody shirt and leaned in closer to get a look at the damage.

"B-, Bev-," Jean-Luc sputtered. Was she really there, he wondered, or was he imaging her?

"Don't try to talk," she said without looking up. "Bring the light closer." When Worf complied, she saw the bullet lodged in his muscle, not near any major organs. She felt his forehead for fever.

"I, I want to—"

"Hush," she commanded. "I'll be right back." She gently laid a hand on his chest, a soothing gesture that also allowed her to feel his heartbeat, which, she was glad to discover, was strong.

Beverly allowed herself a brief glare at Miss Ro before she examined the man in front of her. The African woman murmured prayers over and over and held his hand.

Right away, Beverly could tell the man was more badly wounded than Jean-Luc. She would have to operate immediately. "Wesley, bring my bag here." She ripped his burlap shirt completely away and moved the lantern closer to the wound, which opened up the man's abdomen. "I'll need the other light over here as well," she said to Ro, without looking at her. Ro brought the lantern closer.

Beverly worked quickly. First, she took a bottle of whiskey out of the bag and handed it to Worf. "Have him drink five swigs."

"He don't drink spirits!" The wife protested.

"He'll have to today."

Worf held the man's head up as he poured the liquor down his throat.

"Oh, Lord, Lord, help us, save him, save him . . . ."

"I need both lights as close to the wound as possible. Wes, take the lantern from Worf. I'll need you, Worf, to hold the patient down. This is going to be painful." She took the whiskey bottle, returned from Worf, and poured some of the amber liquid onto a small towel, which she twisted and placed in the patient's mouth. Next, she poured a good amount of it on his skin around the wound. He cried out from the burning sensation.

With Ro and Wesley holding the lights and Worf pinning the man down, Beverly set to work. It was difficult and painstaking work, removing bullet fragments and stitching together blood vessels and organs. She moved as carefully and quickly as she could, which was not terribly fast at all. More than once, she raised her voice to ask one of her companions to move a light or hold down the man's legs. He tried to cry out but his voice was muffled by the rag in his mouth. In the dank heat of the tunnel, with the pressure to remain hidden and to save the life of the badly wounded man, Beverly felt sweat on her forehead. She never heard Ro rip off a piece of her petticoat. If she noticed the younger woman patting the cloth on her forehead to dry the perspiration before it dripped into her eyes, she did not acknowledge her.

Everyone else grew weary. Ro shifted the lantern between her hands as first one, then the other arm, grew tired. Wesley divided his attention between the African man and Captain Picard, nervously praying that the latter would be all right. The praying wife eventually lay across her husband's legs, to hold them down and to rest herself.

After what felt like hours, Beverly sewed up the man's skin, poured another splash of whiskey on the stitches, and, with Worf's help, lifted him and wrapped a cloth around his body.

"He's going to be all right?" Ro asked.

"I'm not sure," Beverly said quietly.

"But all that . . . sewing you did."

"He's very badly wounded. I removed the bullet and did what I could." Beverly looked at the man's wife. "Stay with him. Make sure he doesn't rip that dressing off. If he bleeds through, have someone come get me. Do you understand?" The woman nodded. Behind her, Ro took in the instructions as well.

Beverly turned to Ro. "He needs to be taken to a bed and watched carefully. Keep a cold, damp towel on his head to cool his fever and let me know immediately if it seems like his fever is getting worse. Once he's lain down in a bed, don't let him get up. Give him plenty of liquids."

Ro nodded. "Worf can help me after you've taken care of Captain Picard."

Beverly shook her head. "No, go now."

"What about Captain Picard?"

"He's not as badly injured. I can get the bullet out fairly easily and Wesley will help me."

For a quick moment, Ro worried that Beverly might let the captain die out of spite. She quickly dismissed the idea as uncharacteristic of the woman she had known for so long, yet . . . .

"Beverly, you should know something." She paused, both to muster her courage and capture the other woman's attention. After an awkward wait, it was clear that Beverly would not meet her gaze. "The Captain and I—we were only together to do this, to help fugitives escape. We used the idea of courtship as a cover so no one would suspect. There's nothing romantic between us. We're not really married."

Beverly had been gathering and cleaning her tools, her back to the other woman. Once Ro completed her confession, Beverly stopped and looked up at the wall of the cave and the prone body of the man she had loved. Was it true? Had his courtship and conquest of the younger woman been only a charade? Was this what Guinan had been talking about when she mysteriously told her they would one day be together?

"In fact, he loves you, very much."

She wanted to believe Ro, but she could not risk her heart again. She turned her head to the side, in Ro's general direction, but not looking at her. "You'd better get going. Send someone for me if he takes a turn for the worse. I'll stop by later today to check on him."

Ro waited a moment, but Beverly never looked up. "Let's go." She motioned to Worf and the latter carefully lifted the patient into his arms. Ro helped his wife and the four of them departed.

"Wesley, hand me the whiskey bottle." Beverly's voice was professional as she returned to the business of tending to her next patient.

When she opened the bottle, however, she saw only a little of the liquid remained. She had not realized how much the other man had drunk in an effort to stay numb. Some time ago, she had gotten into the habit of washing wounds with the alcohol as it somehow seemed to reduce the number of infections. She could not risk not having the whiskey for that important task. But that meant . . . .

"Beverly." Jean-Luc's voice was a raspy whisper, but he was happy that he had been able to say her name. He was even more thrilled to see her, to know that she had come to help him. He hoped that she might still have some feelings for him. He thought he saw concern etched on her face. He thought he saw something, more than just a doctor's clinical assessment when she looked into his eyes, worry furrowing her damp brow, her face glistening in the lantern light. She cupped his cheek in her hand.

"Jean-Luc." Beverly spoke softly and slowly. "Listen to me." She swallowed a large lump in her throat. "I'm going to remove the bullet, but it's going to hurt. It's going to hurt a great deal. I need you to try not to move, no matter how bad the pain gets. Do you understand?"

He looked into her warm eyes, her beautiful face and he saw his salvation. "Yes," he said, unsure of what he was agreeing to, but eager to accede to any and all of her wishes.

She sat back. "Wes, I'll need you to hold him down."

"What about the lantern?"

"I'll just have to keep it next to me. This is going to hurt him a lot and he won't be able to help himself."

As Beverly cut into his flesh, Jean-Luc's body bucked up against Wesley's arms, which were trying to pin him down in the dirt.

"Hold still."

She had difficulty seeing the spot where the bullet was lodged. She moved the lantern and tried again, to no avail. Every mistaken jab or slice that she made caused Jean-Luc an unnecessary sharp, stabbing pain and his body jerked. Wesley struggled to prevent him from moving.

Jean-Luc's screams were terrible to her ears. She stopped, set down her scalpel and wiped her bloody hands on her dress. Getting up on her knees, she leaned over her patient and took his face in her hands.

"Jean-Luc!"

He wailed.

"Jean-Luc!" Her voice louder, her hands squeezing his cheeks.

He looked into her eyes.

"Beverly?" He breathed, incredulous but hopeful, as though he had forgotten she was there.

Tears pooled in her eyes and she blinked rapidly to expel them. She had to remain in control of her feelings, had to remain focused, to remove the bullet. Everything she felt for him would be lost if he died from his gunshot wound. He stared at her as though she were his lifeline and, at this moment, she was. She brushed a hand across his forehead, to calm both him and herself.

"Jean-Luc, I know this is painful, but I need you to try very, very hard not to move. It's the only way I can save your life. It's very important that you lie as still as you can. Do you understand?"

Jean-Luc grappled with reality. He knew something was wrong with the way he was thinking, he thought he saw Beverly and was overcome by her presence, but he was uncertain why she would be with him. What had happened? What was going on?

"Beverly, are you really here, with me? Is that really you?"

Beverly swallowed the lump in her throat. "Yes, it's me." She stroked his cheek as she spoke. "Do you remember? You were shot. I'm going to take the bullet out and close your wound."

"I was shot." Jean-Luc appeared to consider that piece of news. He looked to his right and saw Wesley. Above them, the lantern light illuminated the earthen ceiling. "The tunnel."

"That's right, Captain," Wesley said. "We're in the tunnel. You were shot crossing the road. My mom's going to help you."

Jean-Luc turned to Beverly and grabbed her hand in his. "I'm so glad you're here. Beverly. So much I have to tell you."

"Sssh, not now. I have to operate on you, Jean-Luc. Let me do this first." His touch, as it always had, affected her. Even with a life-threatening injury, his grip on her hand was firm. His fingers wrapped around hers were warm, although she knew that could be a fever. "Please try to hold still," she begged, even as she entreated herself to ignore the feelings that physical contact with him had begun to awaken.

"All right," he said. Although it seemed to strain him, Jean-Luc lifted Beverly's hand to his lips and lightly kissed it.

What did that mean, Beverly fretted. Was he consciously trying to conjure up the image of their first meeting? Was he trying to tell her something? Or, was he merely delusional? Perhaps he kissed all women like that when he met them. Her heart fluttering, Beverly shook her head to bring herself back to the task at hand. She sat back on her legs.

"Mom?" Wesley looked at her with concern. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she answered automatically. She picked up her forceps and peered into the hole in Jean-Luc's side. "I can't see the bullet. I'm going to need you to hold up the lantern, Wes."

With improved lighting, she saw the damage clearly. As she used the forceps to carefully extract the bullet, then stitched him up, she blocked out the sound of his cries, which Wesley muffled considerably by stuffing his own shirt into Jean-Luc's mouth. She worked as quickly as she could, but she was meticulous. Apparently understanding enough of her words, Jean-Luc restrained himself physically as much as he could and Wesley immobilized him as much as he could with one arm.

Finally, Beverly finished. She rubbed the last drops of the whiskey on top of the stitched opening then, with Wesley's help lifting Jean-Luc, wrapped a bandage around his abdomen. She prayed that she had not gotten the wound dirty. With the fragment from Ro's petticoat, she wiped her face. She removed Wesley's shirt from Jean-Luc's mouth and wiped his equally wet face, feeling for fever.

"He's hot," she whispered.

"Mom, it's 100 degrees down here."

Beverly shook her head. "No, it isn't that warm. He has a fever. We have to get him out of here."

"How?" Wesley had hoped that Worf would be back by now, but the bigger man may have encountered some problem that delayed him.

"Is it easier to get out at the other end of the tunnel?" Beverly asked, her hand wrapped around Jean-Luc's wrist, feeling for his pulse.

"No, it's the same. A hole we'd have to climb out of."

Beverly was all business. "Well, we're going to have to lift him out of here between the two of us." She packed her things into her medical bag.

Wes bent over Jean-Luc and looked into his glassy eyes. "Captain, we're going to need you to walk. We have to get you out of the tunnel and back to your house." He spoke authoritatively, with an adultness he never felt in the presence of the captain, but knew he needed to call upon now. "Mom, I don't think he understands."

Jean-Luc breathed, "I do. Must stand up."

"We'll help you."

On either side of their patient, Wesley and Beverly each wrapped one of Jean-Luc's arms around their shoulders and helped lift him up as he struggled to get his legs beneath him. Once upright, he took a weak step, then began to crumble.

"Come on, Jean-Luc, you can do it," Beverly urged, as she felt his weight threaten her balance.

Jean-Luc felt utterly confused. His head ached. Unsure where he was or why he could not command his legs with any certainty, he took a few unsteady steps then seemed to recognize the woman on his left. "Beverly?" He whispered. She was so close to him, her face just inches away. "Is that you, Beverly?" He wondered if he were drunk, though he did not remember drinking anything. "Is that really you?"

Her right arm around him, her left hand holding his left hand, Beverly nudged him forward. She knew that if she stopped to talk to him, their progress would be jeopardized. "Yes, Jean-Luc, it's me. We have to get you out of here. Please try to walk."

He obeyed, the only coherent thought in his mind being that this was what Beverly wanted him to do.

"Hold on, Mom."

Wesley left them just below the entrance to the tunnel and ran back for his mother's bag. He blew out the lantern then stood directly below the entrance. Looking up, he could see the stars.

"Beverly, . . . I have . . . to tell . . . ," Jean-Luc tried to say.

"Sh! I have to make sure no one's out there," Wesley whispered.

"All clear!" They heard Guinan's voice from above.

"I'm tossing up my mother's bag."

"Beverly . . . ." Jean-Luc's heavy breathing indicated the effort he was putting forth to stand and try to talk.

"Jean-Luc, it's all right. Don't try to talk now. We'll talk later."

"Guinan, you help my mom up," Wesley was explaining, "then I'll push the captain up while you two pull him."

Jean-Luc knew he had to say something important to Beverly and he had to say it now. He feared he would not get another chance. Summoning as much energy as he could, he swung the right side of his body around until his right arm reached her shoulder. Falling into her, he was embracing her. With Wesley's help, she kept upright and supported his weight.

"Captain—"

"Jean-Luc—"

"I love you." He looked right into her eyes as he said it. With only the light of stars, he thought he saw tears in her eyes and pain across her brow. He wanted to say more, to do more, but in his confusion and weakness, all he could was try to stay on his feet.

Surprised, Beverly's emotions—anger, fear, hurt, compassion, love—began to bubble to the surface. For a moment, she realized how close she had come to losing Jean-Luc—for good—just now. Unable to speak, she leaned toward him until her forehead rested on his. Her arms had been holding him up, at a distance, but now her hands clutched his wet shirted body and moved him closer to her. Her lips quivered as she wrestled to get words past the thick lump in her throat.

"Mom, we have to go. They might come out here looking for the fugitives. We have to get him to the house."

Beverly closed her eyes and nodded. Her hand caressed the side of Jean-Luc's face as she pulled out of his arms. Wesley took him and helped him to sit down. Linking his hands together, he nodded for his mother to step up. When she did, he boosted her up, she grabbed the rope and Guinan pulled her up until she reached the edge of the hole and was able to climb out.

Extricating Jean-Luc, in his weakened state and half-delirium, proved quite taxing, but eventually the three of them got him out and stood him up.

Guinan took charge. "I'll go ahead and wake Geordi to help us. What do you need, Dr. Crusher?"

"Boil some water. Get some whiskey."

As the two Crushers walked their half-delirious patient toward the house, they mapped out a plan, in between his moans of "Beverly." Both knew there was a great deal unsaid—about Wesley's involvement in a criminal conspiracy, about Beverly's feelings for the man whose life she had just saved—but they understood that now was not the time to talk about these things.


	17. Chapter 17

Marie awoke to a bustling in the house. Jean-Luc typically arose before she did and headed straight down for breakfast, then out to the fields or the office. As the early morning light flitted into her room, she perceived the sounds of footsteps back and forth in the hall and whispered voices, female and male. What on Earth could be going on?

She slipped on her robe as she stood up. Opening her bedroom door, she saw Geordi and Guinan in the hallway. The blind man carried clothes covered in the unmistakable red-brown of dried blood, quite a bit of it from the looks of it.

"What is going on here?" Marie demanded.

Suddenly, the door to Jean-Luc's bedroom opened and the last person Marie expected to see—Beverly Crusher—stepped out.

"Beverly!" Marie looked to Guinan then back to Beverly, who, she noticed, was wearing one of her own dresses. Marie did a quick inventory of the pile of bloody clothes that Geordi held and saw that it contained Beverly's dress as well as men's clothing. She gasped. "Has something happened to Jean-Luc?"

Beverly and Guinan looked at each other. "Yes," Beverly answered. Seeing Marie's worried brow, she quickly added, "But, I think he's going to be all right. He just needs some medical supervision." Before Marie could form any coherent questions, Beverly smiled weakly. "Why don't you go back to bed, Marie? I'm going to check in on another patient, then I'll come back for breakfast and to keep an eye on your brother-in-law."

Marie shook her head in disbelief. "Beverly, I can't believe that _you_ are here to treat Jean-Luc!"

"It's a long story. I can explain over breakfast."

"I can't wait to hear it." Eying her suspiciously, Marie retreated to her room.

Guinan motioned for Beverly to follow her downstairs and took Geordi's arm.

Safe in the kitchen, Geordi took the clothes to launder them. Guinan sat Beverly down with a cup of coffee. "What are you going to tell Madame Picard?"

"Thank you for this," Beverly said of her warm cup. "I'm going to say that Jean-Luc had travelled south and picked up a mosquito-borne virus. He had to be brought here because it's highly contagious and Miss Ro, or Mrs. Picard, hasn't had it. I have to take care of him, rather than Dr. Quaice, because I have had it and I can't be re-infected."

"And you don't mind taking care of the man who broke your heart?"

Beverly looked offended. "Guinan, my personal feelings would never interfere with my duty to provide medical care."

Guinan saw her seriousness and realized that she had seen it before. It had always been there. "I understand. I also noticed that you've come up with a plausible cover story very quickly." The deception, on the other hand, was something she had never before seen in Beverly.

"Well, I can't really explain how I thought of that. I suppose necessity is the mother of invention." Elbows on the table, she held up her coffee mug in both hands to drink and looked up to Guinan for approval.

The older woman smiled at her.

* * *

"Wesley, slow down. I'm not following you," Dalen Quaice sat down, both to make himself more comfortable and to try to calm down the excited youth who had burst into his office moments ago as if escaping a fire.

"Captain Picard came home from his trip south and he was very sick. Guinan came to get Mom and I went out with them. Mom's still there because he has a fever and she wants to make sure he gets past the worst of it."

"Why in the world didn't your mother wake me?"

"She didn't want to disturb you."

"Why in the world didn't _Guinan_ wake me? She should have known better than to ask your mother of all people."

"I don't know, but it worked out because Mom went straight away." Wesley marveled at the story—complete with prepared answers to questions Dalen had not yet asked—that Guinan had given him to repeat.

Dalen could not quite understand how Beverly Crusher had ended up ministering to the man who had so recently and completely broken her heart. He realized, listening to Wesley's incredible tale, that her feelings for him ran too deeply to be extinguished by his own rotten treatment.

"Wes," he said, "you go get some sleep. I'll relieve your mother as soon as I can get out there this morning."

"No, it's all right, Dr. Quaice. My mom seems . . . kind of content to be there. I think they might be patching things up. She said that she would stay there but she'd send for you if she needs you."

"Patching things up? Good God, he's married to another woman!"

Wesley had forgotten the cover story. "I know, but they could still be friends, right?"

Dalen sighed. "You're young, Wesley. There's a lot you don't understand about men and women. Well, I don't know. Maybe . . . somehow. Maybe that fever will bring some sense to Jean-Luc Picard's brain."

"I hope so, too," Wesley said, truthfully.

* * *

"You're doing a wonderful job of taking care of him. Keep applying the wet cloths to keep him cool and, when he's awake, give him some of these leaves to chew on for pain."

The woman nodded. "Is he gwine to die, doctor?"

Beverly placed a hand lightly on the dark-skinned woman's shoulder. "He'll need a long time to heal. I'm not sure right now if he can make it, but we'll do everything we can to help him."

The woman averted her eyes and looked back down at her husband, asleep in the best bed in which he had ever lain in his life, in a rich white person's mansion. "Bless you, doctor."

"Thank you, and don't you forget to get some rest, too."

Beverly left the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind her. Ro had followed her out.

"Can he really survive this?"

Beverly sighed. "I think so, but I'm going to have to keep a close eye on him. I'll stay with . . . Marie," she nearly said his name, "so that I'm right here."

They took a step down the upstairs hall of Ro's house. "You're welcome to rest here. I thought you should probably follow your own advice."

Beverly looked awful and felt exhausted. It was nearly noon and she had been awake since midnight. The stress of the surgeries and settling Jean-Luc, plus her uncomfortable breakfast, lying to Marie, and her foraging for medicinal plants had more than sapped her energy. Plus, there was another reason to take up Ro's offer.

"I really should stay near him." She indicated the guest bedroom where the man lay. "I may have to operate again if his fever doesn't break. It's very high. Are you sure you don't mind?" She looked Ro in the eye for the first time since she had arrived to check her patient.

"Not at all." Ro was happy to be able to help the woman who had saved her charge, although she did not smile or otherwise indicate it. "Silva?"

The tall African woman emerged from a bedroom farther down the hall. "Everything is ready."

"I don't have slaves to fan you or help you with your bath, but just call out if you need anything, Dr. Crusher." Ro was businesslike.

"Thank you," Beverly managed. She quickly turned away from her hostess and walked to the bedroom, where Silva stood at the door to usher her in.

Silva felt the need to speak her piece. "We all appreciate your helping this poor man, Dr. Crusher. We made some lemonade and food for you. I drew a bath and my room is just across the hall if you need anything at all."

Thanking Silva, Beverly walked into the bedroom she had indicated and discovered modest décor made as pleasant as possible. Not one for frills, she much appreciated the light snack, the soft towels and the comfortable bed.

After she fell asleep—which occurred almost immediately once her head landed on the pillow—Silva and Ro snuck in to remove the wet towels and the remains of the food.

"Mm-hm," Silva said, after they closed the bedroom door behind them, "that is one brave, tough woman to do what you said she did. I've never heard of a white woman sewing up a black man and saving his life by operating. Have you?"

"No, of course not."

"Brave and tough, that one."

"You're telling me."

* * *

With an urgent message from Dr. Quaice, Wesley interrupted Beverly's routine of checking on her gun shot wound patients just as the threatening fever of the escapee, named Ben, had gone down and Jean-Luc's temperature had begun to rise. Neither man had regained consciousness. Beverly left a variety of herbal medicines with Ro, Silva and Guinan and, still not completely recovered from her lack of sleep, allowed Wesley to drive her to the O'Brien cabin on the other side of the county, where Keiko O'Brien had gone into labor.

"Hello, Mrs. Crusher," Miles O'Brien called out amiably as they pulled up into his dirt yard. The cabin was small, set close to the road. They had a vegetable garden in back and, on the other side of the cabin, Keiko's much-admired flower garden, second only to Lwaxanna Troi's in the county. Everyone thought Keiko very sweet, although, since her parents were Japanese, she would never fit in. An Irishman, Miles had secured a position as foreman for Benjamin Maxwell, a landowner in the eastern part of the county, some distance from the rest of the county elite. The O'Briens, everyone thought, did pretty well for immigrants.

Miles carried his crying baby son, Miles, Jr., as his daughter Molly, toddled along beside him. He helped Beverly out of the carriage.

"How is she?" Beverly asked.

"She says the baby's coming quick this time. She's only been in labor for, I don't know, what's it been, an hour since the neighbor boy ran into town and told the doctor?" He asked Wesley.

"A little more than an hour."

"Wesley," Beverly said, "please come back for me at nightfall."

"All right, mom." Wesley deftly turned the carriage around and as he pulled on to the road, he saw a man on a horse, barreling down the road at breakneck speed and heading directly for him. When he was almost upon him, the man jerked his horse to the right and out of the way.

"Watch where you're going, boy," Q snapped.

"Sorry, Mr. Q," Wesley answered automatically, even though he was pretty certain that Q's reckless speed was to blame for the near-accident.

Q slowed his horse further and stopped in the O'Brien yard. "Miles O'Brien!" He bellowed. "The hero of the county! You're just the man I want to see."

The two adults and two children had been stepping into the house as he arrived.

"Q, this is not a good time." Beverly was firm, even harsh. She did not want anyone in the way. "Mrs. O'Brien is having a baby."

"I wasn't talking to you," Q said, with the voice he reserved for dealings with those of lower class, although he had been far more solicitous of Miles. "Besides, I didn't come to speak with Mrs. O'Brien and Mr. O'Brien is far less occupied at the moment."

Beverly opened her mouth to protest, but Miles laughed at Q's remark.

"Come on in, Mr. DeLancie," he said, opening up the door wide.

"Oh, please, dispense with the formalities. Call me Q." All smiles and charm, Q dismounted and followed them into the modest home.

As Miles offered Q a beverage, Beverly immediately glided into the sole bedroom, where she found Keiko lying in bed, her face contorted with the pain of a contraction. She closed the door behind her but could still hear the men's voices.

"Why don't you tell me what happened?" Q was saying.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Crusher," Keiko said, after the contraction. "I told Miles not to get you. I think this one's coming fast and I think I probably could have done it by myself."

Beverly smiled as she wiped Keiko's sweaty brow with a soft cloth. "Don't worry. I'm here now and I'll take good care of you."

The men laughed in the next room.

Beverly set up and lifted the bedcovers to check on Keiko's progress. She was surprised. "You're right, this one's coming along pretty fast."

"I told Miles to boil some water a while ago, aaah." Beverly held her hand during the contraction.

"You're doing great. I'll get the water."

Beverly opened the bedroom door and heard Miles talking.

"I was out patrolling, about 10 miles southeast of town, when I saw a group of people cross the county highway."

"How many?"

"It was hard to see, but I'd guess eight or nine. It was mostly men, but I saw at least two women."

"Women?"

"Uh-huh, I could see their skirts."

"Interesting that they were smuggling women. Go on."

"Excuse me," Beverly maintained her professional voice even though she was beyond startled to hear the topic of their conversation. "Mr. O'Brien, did you boil some water earlier?"

"Oh, sure." Miles stood up from the kitchen table, where the two men had become comfortable drinking an amber yellow liquid out of small mason jars. "Well, I fired on them and I know I hit at least one man. I saw him go down."

"Was it a smuggler or a slave?"

Miles shook his head. "I couldn't tell. It was dark and I was too far away. Here you go, Mrs. Crusher."

"Could you tell where they were headed?"

"Well, north." Miles said it as though it should have been completely obvious.

Q laughed at himself and Miles joined in. "More moonshine!" Q yelled.

Beverly sighed to calm her nerves. She tested the water temperature with her elbow, then poured some out into a metal cup to wash her hands. She took a clean cloth and washed Keiko.

"North! That's a good one, Miles. Of course, I know that, but where specifically in our county. There must be some place nearby where they hide during the day. Were they going into town, for example, or heading out west toward the large estates?"

There was quiet, as Beverly imagined Miles frowning in thought. Keiko had another contraction.

"I couldn't really tell. I guess, from where I spotted them, they could've been going either way."

"Were they headed north, nearer the town, or northwest, which would bypass the town?"

"Well, the county road runs basically east to west out there, so I'd say they were headed due north."

"Keiko, the baby's head is coming out. I'm going to need you to push. How do you feel?"

"Like I want to get this baby out of me!"

"You're doing great. It won't be long. I'll tell you when to push."

Floorboards creaked in a pattern in the big room, as though someone—Q, Beverly surmised, were pacing. "What would you guess?" Q's voice was louder.

"Sir?"

"If you had to guess, did it look more like they were headed toward the town or west of town?"

"Push!"

"Aaaaaaah!"

"Why would anyone out your way be helping fugitive slaves?"

"That's for me to worry about," Q snapped, "not you."

"You're doing great Keiko. Rest a moment."

Miles sounded annoyed. "I don't know. I told you. They were southeast of town and heading north. They could have been going anywhere."

"Were they walking west on the road when you came upon them?"

"I didn't notice. They looked like they were crossing the road, headed into the woods."

"All right, ready? Push!"

"Aaaaaaah!"

"There was no wagon, no horses?"

"No, I told you they were on foot."

With her free hand, Beverly squeezed Keiko's hand. "Almost there, only a couple more."

"Why didn't you follow them into the woods?"

"There was a big group of them, probably a dozen men. And I was alone."

"You had a gun. You had a duty to stop them."

"Look, I volunteered to patrol the area. I shot the smugglers and I went off to tell the rest of the patrol. I did my job."

"Push!"

"Aaaaaaah!"

"That's it, that's it, Keiko. Keep pushing."

As the tiny baby entered the world, leaving its dark, warm, wet, quiet home for the cold, dry daylight and Beverly's hands, the voices in the next room grew louder.

"If you had done your job, the smugglers would have been caught!"

"If your cousin did his job, the smugglers wouldn't be a problem."

"What was it, O'Brien? Were you afraid of a few abolitionists and ni—"

"Get out of my house!"

A sound like a chair being knocked over, followed by a door opening, then slamming shut. Miles, Jr. began to cry again, with Molly joining him.

Beverly patted the baby's back to make sure any water in its respiratory system flowed out and checked for signs of breathing air. When she was satisfied, she turned the baby over and set it on a fresh towel. With exquisite gentleness, she cleaned the baby while she checked its color, which was good. She spoke softly, soothingly, to the baby as she grabbed her instruments, quickly cut the umbilical cord and tied the end. She wrapped the tiny one in a new swaddling blanket.

"How's my baby?" Keiko breathed.

Feeling the bliss she always experienced watching a childbirth, Beverly placed the baby on Keiko's chest. "Congratulations, another boy."

Keiko smiled as she beheld her new son for the first time. "Thank God he's all right. Thank the ancestors."

"Do you know what you're going to name him?"

Keiko's smile faded. "I wanted to name him Hiro, after my father. But, he'll be Connor. That's the name Miles picked out."


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Thank you all for the reviews! They are much appreciated. I'll be away for a long weekend and unable to update. Hope you enjoy these chapters. Peace, Liz

* * *

The first thing Jean-Luc was aware of was pain in his side. A great deal of pain. He moaned, opened his eyes, then closed them as he grimaced. Suddenly, he saw flickers of candlelight. When the light came to rest on the nightstand next to his bed, he looked up and saw the last person on Earth that he had expected.

"Beverly," he croaked, completely confused. She wore a simple dress and her hair was pulled back in a braid. She seemed to be doing something, and made a noise, but he could not tell what. "Am I dreaming?" He wondered aloud.

"Do you usually feel pain in your dreams?" She asked.

But if he was not dreaming, and Beverly really was here with him . . . . He could not fathom how this had come to be.

"Here, drink this." She leaned in close to him and lifted his head and shoulders off the pillows.

Jean-Luc smelled the whiskey, but before he could protest, it was gliding down his throat. He coughed. A second glassful scorched his esophagus.

"You'll thank me later." She set him down briefly, then lifted him again. "Now, drink some water."

The cool liquid was a balm. Jean-Luc drank as much as Beverly would let him, in measured amounts. When he was finished, he lay back on the pillows and tried to piece together what had transpired to render him bedridden and, more importantly, bring Beverly Crusher to him.

As he thought, he watched Beverly reach around to his left side and examine him, her brow wrinkled in the candlelight. Ah, she was here in a medical capacity.

"Ow." It hurt where she touched him.

"Sorry," she said. "I'm just checking on your stitches."

Stitches? "How did you get here?" He asked.

Wearing her professional mask, Beverly looked into Jean-Luc's mystified face and put a hand on his forehead, in no hurry to clear up his befuddlement. "You don't remember what happened?" He still felt warm, but the raging fever that had worried her throughout the day seemed to have subsided some. She said a silent thank you to her grandmother's herbal remedies. "Tell me the last thing you recall."

Jean-Luc strained and began to remember. "I was with Worf and—" Suddenly he saw everything in his mind's eye. They had known they were being followed and had separated from Wesley and the backboard. As Wesley had driven away, the rest of them had continued on foot. Ro leading the way, holding the young woman's hand. Worf and him bringing up the rear, hurrying the young husband along when the shots rang out.

He could not help the wisp of recognition that crossed his face, nor could be prevent Beverly from recognizing it.

"I don't remember," he lied. He could not tell her the secret. He had to keep Beverly safe.

"I see." She made a show of re-arranging his pillows. "You don't remember seeing me in the tunnel? Or me operating on you or Ben? The escaped slave? You don't remember being shot?"

He stared into her eyes and she stared right back. He saw anger but something else. Strength. She knew everything, the law-breaking, the fugitives, the danger. She was involved now. And she was not turning away, running to the sheriff. She was keeping the secret. He felt his heart beat faster as his admiration of her grew even more.

"I see," he managed. "Then, you know everything?"

She nodded, suddenly unable to speak. Too many strong feelings swirled inside her, battling for her attention. Respect for this noble man, who risked his life to save others from a life of bondage. Pride that he had helped her son grow into a fine young man. Anger, so much anger, that he had put Wesley's and his own lives in danger. Confusion that he had kept his mission from her and shut her out of his life so completely. Uncertainty as to his feelings for her, if he had any.

Finally, she whispered, "Why didn't you tell me? Why did you . . . leave me?" Tears filled her eyes.

Jean-Luc took her hand. "Beverly," he said tenderly, "I couldn't involve you because I couldn't risk your life. I had to keep it a secret, all of it. I couldn't let you know that my—my partnership with Miss Ro was a façade, because—"

She turned away at the mention of Miss Ro, her apparent rival.

"Beverly, look at me." Jean-Luc struggled to sit up. "That day, at the barbecue, was the day that Miss Ro told me of her role on the Underground Railroad, unh. She asked me to help her and I agreed." He swallowed. "But, that day, I also realized that I am hopelessly and completely in love with you.

"I-I tried to stay away from you to protect you and . . . because I didn't want to hurt you." Desperation and the ache in his side weakened his voice, which lacked its usual deep timbre and commanding strength.

At first, Beverly empathized with him, as his admission so clearly pained him. But, her temper could not be contained.

"Damn it, Jean-Luc! You did hurt me. Very much." She stood, paced and shook her head. "You should have taken me into your confidence. You had no right to make up my mind for me. If you really . . . love me, how could you just walk away, just ignore me and pursue . . . ." She stopped speaking when her words threatened to become sobs.

"It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life. I—I made the choice I did because I had to save these people. I was in a position to help and I had to. I couldn't stand back and do nothing while people—human beings—were living enslaved.

"Please forgive me. _Please._ Beverly, I beg you." He reached out and caught her hand, but the movement pulled at the wound in his side. "Aaaaah."

She pulled her hand away and carefully lowered him back down on the bed by his shoulders.

"Beverly—"

"Ssh."

The pain in his side stabbed him, but he still tried to sit up to reach her. Her hands on his shoulders, she kept him down. "Don't try to get up," she said.

"Please," he pleaded. "I need to—"

"You don't need to do anything right now, Jean-Luc, except rest and heal." Her professional voice and demeanor had returned. She felt genuinely concerned about his medical condition, yet knew her feelings were more than those of a physician. "I'll be here and we can talk . . . another time."

He stopped struggling and relaxed into the pillow. "Please tell me—"

Beverly interrupted, "I can't tell you anything because I don't know what I feel. We're not going to talk about this now." She placed her hand on his forehead and wrinkled her brow at how warm it felt. "I want you to drink some more water."

Jean-Luc complied, sipping water from the glass she held for him. He felt her hand on the back of his neck and looked up from the glass, wanting to see her face. When he did, however, all he saw was her professional mien, examining him clinically. Her eyes held none of the twinkling humor or barely veiled desire that they had shone for him nine months ago. Did she no longer care for him? The question frightened him.

Did she no longer care for him, Beverly asked herself. No, no, she backed away from the question and any of the answers that came unbidden to her mind. She had a patient to heal. This was not an appropriate time to be mired in emotions. Once the glass was empty, Beverly moved away from Jean-Luc and instantly began to feel calmer. She prayed he would not call her name again. The sound of his voice, even—perhaps especially—in his current weakened state, could chip at her resolve.

No, she would do better to keep away from him, she strove to convince herself. She blew out the candle, then folded herself on to the divan where she had been sleeping. With his fever still a concern, she needed to be near him, but, Beverly repeated to herself, only as his doctor, only as his doctor.

* * *

By the time Beverly opened her eyes, the sun had risen completely and the air in the room was heating up. She sat up and rubbed a kink out of her neck that had settled in as a result of her odd posture, sleeping on the divan in Jean-Luc's room. She looked over to the bed and saw him, thankfully, still asleep. She moved to the bed quietly and gently touched his forehead, finding it slightly cooler than it had felt in the middle of the night. His improved condition was a load lifted from her shoulders. Beverly stood above him, wanting both to stay and stare at him unobserved, and to flee from him as fast as possible. In the morning light, with sickness still hovering in him, he looked so vulnerable. She knew that this chance to gaze at him was a rare intimacy, especially for a woman who was not his wife.

Beverly's eyes wandered from his face, so much softer in sleep, to his lean chest, muscled biceps, and slim legs. What was it about Jean-Luc, an older, bald man of average height and build, that attracted her? Was it something she could see as he slept, or was it in his eyes, his deep voice, the poetic words he spoke to her? Awake, he always seemed strong and assured, a man of definite tastes and opinions. Susceptible really only to her teasing.

She thought of the day that the women of the sewing circle complained about his rude behavior toward them and how he seemed utterly disinterested in female company. What did it mean that he had never acted that way with her? From the minute they had laid eyes on one another, they had wanted to be together, or so she had thought. Until the barbecue . . .

Beverly backed away from him and left the room, lugging her black medical bag with her. She tiptoed down the hall so as not to disturb Marie and walked through the house to the kitchen, where she found Guinan supervising the clean-up of breakfast.

"Good morning, Dr. Crusher," Guinan said. "Can I get you something to eat?"

"No," Beverly answered in a faraway voice. "I'm fine. I'm going over to Ro's to check on Ben."

Guinan studied her. "If you're going to work, you should eat first."

Shaking her head, Beverly resumed walking. "No, I'll have something over there. They're always trying to feed me." She escaped through the back door.

Even though she had watched Beverly travel the same route multiple times since the shooting, Guinan thought that something seemed different this time.

By the sun dazzling the eastern sky, Beverly guessed it to be after seven o'clock in the morning, maybe going on eight. She walked through the garden and by the vineyard. She passed by people going about their chores, including Geordi, who was churning butter, and a young woman she knew as Aquiel, who stood next to him with an empty basket, chatting after apparently having delivered something to the main house. Some of them called out greetings, but she ignored them. Looking straight ahead, she traversed the changed landscape of the Picard plantation without noticing it—decorative lawns that were now plowed fields; the edge of a newly formed village of small cottages where the freedmen lived; a half-constructed machine barn to house the new equipment needed for the cotton harvest.

A fence no longer divided the Picard and Ro properties and when Beverly crossed over she was on a recently excavated dirt road that led into the village. She climbed a small hill topped by a tall chestnut tree. An old bench sat in the shade of the tree and Beverly sat down on it.

Beverly had been so consumed with keeping her patients alive, plus delivering Keiko's baby, that she had not given herself a chance to think about Jean-Luc's and her relationship—if they could even call it that. Certainly, they had not had any kind of relationship since the barbecue last summer. She had now heard from him what others had hinted at—that he truly did care for, maybe even loved, her. How did she feel about trusting a man who had lied to her and avoided her for months, all to participate in an illegal and perilous smuggling operation?

Sighing and closing her eyes, Beverly recalled how her heart had raced when Wesley told her he had been shot. How she herself had felt a stabbing sensation at the sight of him bleeding on the ground in the dark, dank tunnel. She relived the torture of trying to patch him up in the dim light, knowing that her movements were causing him pain, but were vital to saving his life.

 _Damn!_ She had tried valiantly to exorcise him from her heart. She had begun to feel almost normal again, engaging in all her usual pursuits and happily practicing medicine with Dalen. Deanna acted normally around her, finally, and she caught Dalen smiling at her again, no longer treating her like a second-time widow. Why could she not let go of Jean-Luc Picard? What was this power he had over her? Who was he, really?

And how could she ever trust him again?

Beverly hated her pointless ruminations almost as much as she hated herself for still caring about him. She knew she should get up and check on Ben, but she felt rooted to the spot, unable to leave the bench with its peaceful shade and sweeping view. If only she could find her own peace and beauty, she lamented.

* * *

"What's Dr. Crusher doing, sitting under that tree?" Silva appeared at Ro's elbow, as she had a habit of doing.

"Looks like she's thinking."

"About what?"

"How would I know?"

"You been standing there so long, I'd 've thought you might have come up with something."

Ro rolled her eyes. She'd long grown accustomed to the older woman's criticisms couched as humor.

"Not too difficult to figure it out, really, is it?"

"If by 'not too difficult,' you mean Captain Picard, I would point out, Silva, that none of us really knows what another person is thinking."

"Well, I disagree with that." Silva clung to many unscientific beliefs that Ro considered mystical. "You should go over there and talk to her."

"Me? I'm the last person in the world she wants to talk to."

"Oh, now you _can_ read her mind?"

Ro spun around in anger. "If she is upset about Captain Picard, then I'm the person who caused her to be upset. She would be furious with me."

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"None of us really knows what another person is thinking."

Ro scoffed in frustration. "So I should just walk over there and ask her what she's thinking?"

"Yes, something like that."

"And if she's furious with me?"

"She may be, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't go over there."

"Silva, I'm a grown woman. You can't tell me—"

"If you're a grown woman, then start acting like one. Go over there and talk to that poor, kind woman who's suffering and help her."

Exasperated, Ro folded her arms across her chest as she turned away, facing Beverly again. "I don't do things like that. I wouldn't know what to say. You go talk to her."

"Uh-uh. You're a grown woman and it's time you learned to clean up your own messes."

Ro's face felt hot with embarrassment. She knew without looking that Silva had started back to the house.

 _Why did she always have to be right?_


	19. Chapter 19

As her eyes focused on the person approaching her across the field, Beverly realized it was Miss Ro. Having some time to look at Ro and reflect, she noticed that Ro, like her, favored simple dresses most of the time and wore her hair simply, in Ro's case, in a ponytail. Even at a social event as prominent as the barbecue, Ro had merely fashioned her ponytail into a bun. The barbecue.

It was hard for Beverly to believe that this slight, unconventional woman ran a gang of slave smugglers and persuaded the forceful Captain Jean-Luc Picard to work for her. Beverly had only ever known Ro as an anti-social recluse who did not even bother with the formalities of polite society, as Beverly herself tried to do.

Ro's pace slowed as she neared Beverly. She began to look around at her surroundings, left and right, as though trying to appear casual. The young woman's discomfort was not lost on Beverly, who rather enjoyed it.

"Uh, hi." Ro ventured a glance at Beverly, who appeared completely at ease and nonplussed by her arrival.

"Good morning." Beverly sounded neither friendly nor mean. She might have responded with a generic comment about the pleasant weather or the view from the hilltop—either would have been socially expected, to open up a polite conversation—but she chose not to say anything more. Since Ro had come to her, Beverly reasoned, with some anger, let her be the one to initiate the conversation, Beverly thought

"So, uh," Ro tried "would you mind if I sat down?"

Surprised, Beverly slid over to make room. "It's your property," she said gazing off into the distance rather than at her companion.

Bristling at Beverly's remark and tone, Ro sidled over and sat on the very end of the bench, as far from the other woman as possible. It took her a few moments to compose a small speech. "I don't want you to feel like you're not welcome here. We all appreciate what you did for Ben. You saved his life and . . . well, I just think you were remarkable, operating under those circumstances. I doubt Dr. Quaice could have done it and I know most doctors wouldn't have bothered. So . . . ," she looked down at her hands, "thank you."

Not really sure what she expected Ro to say to her, Beverly was still taken aback by her expression of appreciation. For a moment, she was transported back to the day in the sewing circle when Ro complimented her sewing and, as now, spoke of her admiringly. The two women had never been friends, exactly, but never enemies, either.

Beverly looked at Ro to see that she was wringing her hands.

"I . . . I'm sorry for what you had to go through," Ro said.

Beverly squinted. "What do you know about what I had to 'go through'?"

"I—well, nothing, I guess, really. I just assumed that you felt the same way he did."

"Oh? And what way was that?"

Ro sighed. This was even harder than she had imagined. She wanted more than anything to give up and return to her verandah. "Well . . . agony. I would call what Captain Picard went through, being apart from you, agony."

The word shocked Beverly even though it supported everything she had seen in Jean-Luc's eyes whenever he had looked at her since the shooting, whether delirious or not. She looked at Ro now, and saw the younger woman visibly nervous. Could it be true?

"The two of you . . . ."

"There is no 'the two of us.' We were never involved romantically." Ro nearly added, "as I told you before," but Silva's voice inside her head told her not to be petty with people. "I needed help with the Underground Railroad and shortly after Captain Picard moved in, Guinan told me that he would help me."

"Guinan? How did she know?"

Ro shook her head. "I don't think she knew, exactly, but she guessed that he would and she was right. She knew he was a noble, moral man."

Beverly breathed in. "There are a lot of good men here who would never do what you do."

"He's a better man," Ro said simply.

 _Yes, he is,_ Beverly thought. "But, your marriage—"

"—I told you, we're not married." Ro had lost enough of her patience to point out that she was repeating her message. "We faked being married so that we could combine our lands and build a wall around to hide what we're doing and protect ourselves. It's easier this way. People treat me as his spouse and don't bother me as much. I can buy things we need with his credit. It's just part of the cover story."

"Do you live together?" Beverly had heard a rumor that they did.

"He eats breakfast with Silva and me, then goes to work in his house or outside. He comes home late, eats dinner then goes to bed, in his own room. We talk about the business of the land and the business of the railroad."

Beverly was beginning to see a very different picture than the one her jealousy had painted. "That's all you talk about?"

"Well, Silva's more of a conversationalist than I am. I mean, we talk about the weather, about people who work for us and how they're doing."

"Do you ever read together?"

"Read? You mean, books?"

"Yes."

"No, I'm not much for reading. I think it's an idle pursuit. There's too much work to do to spend time reading."

"How do you feel about music, concerts?"

Ro shrugged. "I never gave it much thought, but it's the same thing. Idleness."

Beverly thought of the artwork and collectibles in the Picard house and how Jean-Luc took such pride in their long history.

"What about history or philosophy?"

Ro looked at her then. "Why are you asking me about these things? I feel like I'm being interrogated."

"I—I suppose you are, in a way. I just know that those are some things that Jean-Luc is interested in."

Ro noted that Beverly used his first name, an uncommon familiarity. Not that she was one to follow convention. "Beverly, I don't know what to say to convince you: the captain and I are not a couple. We never have been and we never will be.

"The entire time that we've been acting like a couple, . . . it's just been killing him because he wants to be with you. The captain is a great man, but he's been a suffering martyr. Now that the two of you have been thrown together . . . ." Ro stopped, unsure how to say what she felt. It was an unfamiliar feeling. "I just, Beverly, I hope that the two of you can be together. I hate to see him hurting so much." She looked away, an uneasiness squeezing her heart.

He had been a martyr. Someone had warned her recently about adopting that very stance. Beverly suddenly understood. "Miss Ro? Could I ask you a favor?"

Ro instantly envisioned being pressed to talk to the captain on Beverly's behalf. She wished she could shrink down to the size of the ants at her feet and crawl away. _What would Silva do?_ She closed her eyes briefly and swallowed. "Of course."

"Could you check on Ben for me? Check his bandage and his fever?"

"Uh, yes, I guess so." Ro looked at her. "I've seen you do it—"

"Thank you," Beverly said, rising. "I'll come by later, but there's something I have to do first." She started walking back toward the Picard house at a brisk speed.

Ro exhaled. "Hallelujah."

* * *

Guinan was just clearing away the breakfast tray when Beverly fairly burst into the bedroom.

"Dr. Crusher, is everything all right?" Guinan asked, as both Jean-Luc and she turned to behold the whirlwind that had flown into the room.

Suddenly embarrassed, Beverly looked down. "Yes. Yes, I think everything is all right now."

Jean-Luc and Guinan looked at each other, one with a question in his eyes and the other, with the answer.

"I'll take this downstairs. Captain, Doctor, ring if you need anything." As she left, however, Guinan knew that she would not be hearing from either of them.

Beverly stood, visibly ill-at-ease, for a long awkward moment, looking at her feet and trying desperately to put her powerful feelings into words, in a language she had not spoken in many years and never to this man. She felt a trembling beginning deep within her.

"Would you like a glass of water? Some thoughtful person left a pitcher of water on my nightstand." Jean-Luc's voice pierced the heavy silence like an arrow of lightness.

Beverly breathed. "Yes," she nodded.

A gentleman, Jean-Luc automatically tried to sit up to pour her drink, but the combination of pain and lightheadedness made him stop mid-way.

"Oh, no," Beverly quickly moved to the bed. "Don't get up." She gently pushed his shoulder until he fell back on his pillows, then quickly retracted her hand and turned to the nightstand.

She picked up a glass and lifted the water pitcher, but her hands shook so much that the water spilled. She set the glass down on the nightstand and another hand wrapped around hers, to steady her.

Without moving the rest of his body, Jean-Luc had been able to reach out with his arm. "Hey," he said softly. "Beverly, what's wrong?"

His warm hand and his voice reached her heart. It had been a long time since the two of them had shared a moment, had connected. Beverly looked into the depths of Jean-Luc's hazel eyes. Despite everything that had happened, she saw the man she had known and trusted. Her breath came in ragged spurts as she readied herself to jump off the cliff.

"Jean-Luc, I . . . ."

He imagined any number of endings to that sentence that would match the look of distress on her face. _I am terrified, I have to go, I have bad news about your injury._ The one phrase he never imagined was the one that she spoke.

"I love you."

Her voice was only a wisp but it carried a promise of something special, something beautiful that Jean-Luc had never experienced. A whole new world opened up before him with those three words. A world he had only glimpsed in the lives of others. He tugged her hand, drew her closer and enclosed her slender, delicate fingers between his two palms.

"Beverly." At first, all he could do was say her name and look into her blue eyes the color of the sea.

Her face softened and her eyes calmed, as she looked into his and felt a shared emotion pass between them. Her fears were slowly scuttling into the dark corners of her psyche as she realized, headily, that this man, this handsome, charismatic, courageous, good man, who was now squeezing her hand tightly—

"Beverly, I love you. And I will love you for the rest of my life."

Her knees felt weak. She drifted to the edge of the bed and sat down, her hip next to his blanketed one. While his touch soothed her, tears clouded her eyes and she realized she was no longer alone, but now had a partner in life. She felt a movement and turned toward him, medically, to see him forcing himself to sit up.

"No, you shouldn't." She should have been able to overpower him, but when her fawn-legged emotional state met his adrenaline-fueled strength, he wrapped her in his arms, allowing her to lay her head on his bare shoulder. He closed his eyes as he gently rested his head on hers, feeling her soft hair on his face.

"I'm so, so sorry, Beverly," he murmured. "I will never be apart from you again." He held her tightly, even though extending his left arm tugged at his newly stitched skin. The throbbing disappeared in the delirious happiness he felt, holding Beverly against him.

Beverly closed her eyes and simply felt content and safe in the warmth of Jean-Luc's arms.


	20. Chapter 20

Fire light flickered in one of the unoccupied cabins in the middle of the Picard slave quarters. This building now housed only a table for meetings. The current inhabitants were an unusual mix of black and white conspirators. If observed, they would undoubtedly have been arrested, merely for congregating together. They spoke to each other with a familiarity rare among interracial groups.

Guinan shook her head. "You can't do it. It's too risky."

"I disagree," Miss Ro said. "Based on what Dr. Crusher heard, we can use a totally different approach. Come from Franklin County, come on to the property from the west, where no one would be watching, and still make it to the tunnel."

Guinan sat down across from the younger woman. "They know you're out here somewhere. The last time was too close. Any other attempts and they _will_ find you. And everyone with you." With those last words, she nodded toward Wesley, standing in the corner, keeping guard.

"I'm not afraid," Wesley quickly said.

"Neither am I," Ro added.

Guinan placed her hands palms down on the table and breathed for a moment. She looked up into Ro Laren's eyes. "This is not about being brave. It's not about _you_. This is about keeping a secret passageway to freedom secret. Right now, we've been compromised and we can't afford any more attention. We have to stop for a while."

"Agh!" Ro threw up her arms. "How long is 'a while'? How much longer do people have to wait for their freedom? For their lives? Guinan, are you aware of what's going on out there?" Her arm swept around the cabin, to indicate the wider world of the South. "You don't hear them talking, do you? They want to start a _war._ They're frothing at the mouth for it. War could be weeks away. We have to do everything we can to get people out of here before it starts and that means doing it _now!_

"What do you think, Worf?"

The tall man next to Guinan had been quiet, in his usual thoughtful way. Worf was known to be a man of action, furious with the white people who had enslaved his race. Ro had assumed he would be her staunchest ally. Still, he had learned to trust Guinan's counsel . . . .

"Worf?" Ro glared at him expectantly.

"Miss Ro is correct," he finally said. "War is . . . imminent. The white men talk about this wherever they gather. Our ability to move will be greatly constrained when regiments are formed and begin to move across the countryside."

"I don't know, Worf." Geordi sat at Ro's elbow. "I want to help our people just as much as you do. We _all_ do. But, with the patrol coming so close last time, I don't see how we can help anyone right now without getting discovered."

"We can't," Guinan insisted. "We have to sit tight and see what happens in the coming weeks."

Ro countered, "I disagree. Miles O'Brien saw some people he couldn't identify on the other side of town, far away from here. There's nothing to connect us to that shooting. All we have to do is avoid that part of the county." She stood up. "We have to do everything in our power to rescue people trapped here right up until the moment that we can't. There's no sense in our arguing about it. We're never going to agree. I'm going to do what I need to do." She walked out of the cabin brusquely.

With a half nod to be polite, Wesley followed.

"Worf," Guinan said. "Go, and keep an eye on her. Don't let her get anyone killed."

Worf moved to comply, not entirely sure that he could follow that order.

* * *

"Well," Beverly was saying as she unpacked her basket. "Dalen did question me about my uncharacteristic happiness."

Jean-Luc felt a pull on his heart, knowing that he had caused happiness to be uncharacteristic for her.

"I told him that I was making my rounds, checking on Keiko O'Brien's new baby, checking the 'virus' patient at Miss Ro's, and checking on you. Since he saw me picking out books, I told him that I might stay and read with you for a while."

Jean-Luc smiled at the thought of Beverly reading aloud to him, as she had promised the day before. Lying in bed doing nothing was killing him far faster than his wound, which, Beverly assured him, was healing well.

"Lemons?" Jean-Luc asked, as one spilled out of the basket.

"I know you like lemonade. I thought I would go downstairs and make some while you nap."

"I don't need a nap."

"Don't argue with your doctor, Jean-Luc."

As much as he despised being laid up in bed, Jean-Luc loved being tended to by Beverly. Even though she touched his body in a medical capacity, he thought he noticed that she lingered a little longer than necessary when feeling his forehead or taking his pulse. When she examined the wound in his side, he saw her face flush as her fingers palpated the area surrounding the stitches. After she was satisfied with his progress, she sat in a chair that Guinan had moved close to the bed and talked with him or read to him. They ate lunch together and she stayed with him until he fell asleep for the afternoon rest that she insisted he take.

"All right, let's see how you're doing today." Stethoscope around her neck, Beverly stood above him.

"Why don't you just ask me how I'm doing today?"

She smiled at him and he was sure his heart rate sped up. "Talking to the patient is of course part of the examination," she answered, as she laid her hand on his forehead. He closed his eyes to enjoy her touch. "But only one part. A physician has to rely on objective physical evidence as well as a patient's subjective reports."

She lifted her hand, then wrapped her fingers around his wrist and squeezed to feel his pulse. He had learned by now not to speak as she counted the beats of his heart. When she finished and set his arm down on the bed, she picked up her usual recitation. "Fever seems to be completely gone, which is a very good sign, although heart rate seems a bit high." She smirked at him.

"I'm no doctor," Jean-Luc said, "but I don't think that's related to my injury."

"Uh-uh, that's subjective. I will need more objective evidence."

Beverly lowered the light blanket covering him and raised the stethoscope to her ears. He flinched as the cold metal shocked his chest, then he looked up and received an even bigger shock. As Beverly leaned over him, listening, her dress fell forward, allowing him to see the bare skin of her chest and even part of her breasts. This had never happened before and he now noticed that she was wearing a lighter, summery dress today, with a neckline that fell just below her collar bone.

This would certainly affect his heart rate, he worried.

"Hmm, your heart rate does seem to be elevated today. I have no idea why."

Was she doing this on purpose? No, he quickly concluded. He glanced up and saw her eyes teasing him as they usually did.

"I'll have to check your lungs as well."

When she lowered her eyes to his chest, he lowered his to hers, and caught a glimpse of creamy white skin curving into perfect, firm mounds. Her bright red hair drifted down on both sides and, the tips landing on and in front of her dress, framed the wonder before him. He smelled the light floral scent that he remembered—

"Jean-Luc, take a deep breath."

He looked up immediately and, seemingly oblivious to what he had just been viewing, Beverly continued in professional mode. "I need to check your respiration. You're breathing sounds erratic."

I'm sure it is, he thought. Keeping his eyes on the ceiling above her, he took deep breaths while she listened to his lungs.

"That's better." Beverly stood, took off her stethoscope and moved to tuck it into her bag. "I don't know why you would have any problems with your lungs. They weren't affected by the gun shot. Unless you really are coming down with an exotic virus from the swamps of Florida."

Jean-Luc felt the temperature in the room drop several degrees when she stepped away from him. His breathing now under control, he realized that another part of his body had reacted to his illicit peek. Reacted quite strongly, indeed.

"Now, we'll just take a look at the site of your wound." Beverly had turned back to him and was walking around the bed, smiling at him.

He crossed his right leg over his body to conceal his arousal, which contorted him into an uncomfortable position. "Um, I, . . . " His movement had practically rolled his body on to his injured side, as though he were trying to get out of bed. "I, um, I need to relieve myself," he said, thinking quickly and unconsciously choosing words that were maddeningly accurate.

"Oh, all right," Beverly said, innocently. "I'll get Geordi to help you. But don't get out of bed by yourself." She walked back to the right side of the bed, took hold of his arm and rolled him on to his back. He bent his legs at the knee protectively.

She smiled down at him, thankfully, he thought, not realizing the cause of the panicked look in his eyes.

She opened the bedroom door, but paused in the doorway, her elegant hand on the doorjamb. "I have the book of Edgar Allan Poe stories, but I thought you might like something different."

"Oh?"

" _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_ , by Washington Irving. It's an American classic."

"Beverly, my dear, _you_ are an American classic."

"Oh, stop." She waved a hand at his frivolity and, smiling even more broadly, departed.

Relaxing into the pillows, Jean-Luc exhaled loudly. Her image stayed in his mind—the light green summer dress with the low neckline; her hair worn down, the ends falling on to her shoulders; the bantering smile as she took her leave. _Had_ she excited him on purpose? He closed his eyes and frantically reached between his legs, his imagination supplying an answer.

* * *

After a pleasant morning spent reading and a delicious mid-day meal, Beverly sat back down in her chair, rather than closing the curtains and fluffing the bed pillows for Jean-Luc's nap. Watching her compose herself, Jean-Luc thought she looked as though she were about to reprimand him for something and he guiltily recalled his inappropriate, but hardly avoidable, enjoyment of her half-exposed bosom. He tried to come up with something to say.

Beverly took a deep breath and looked in Jean-Luc's eyes. It felt so wonderful to be with Jean-Luc, to look at him whenever she wanted, to touch him. They talked and laughed so easily. He challenged her mind, she debated with him. Without mentioning it, they felt a mutual attraction that pulled them toward one another like magnets. There was only one problem.

"Jean-Luc, we have to talk." She smiled, to calm him, for he appeared worried.

His eyes darted quickly to the left, away from her. "What is it, Beverly?" He quickly arranged his face into what he hoped was the picture of innocence.

"Everyone believes that you are married to Miss Ro and that I am merely acting as your doctor. Now, this may not be a problem when it comes to most people, but what about Dalen and Marie? I know Dalen's worried about me and Marie seems very confused. She sees how much time we spend together. I think we have to tell them something."

He released the breath he had been holding, though his sense of relief was short-lived. He knew that she was right. He nodded. "I hadn't wanted to drag them into this and risk their lives. Plus, the fewer people who know, the easier it is to keep our secret. Divulging what we are doing is not a choice to be made lightly."

All of a sudden, Beverly had a glimpse into Jean-Luc's decision not to confide in her. Staring at his face, she saw lines creasing his forehead and realized that he carried the weight of all their lives on his shoulders—the escapees, Ro, Guinan, Worf, Wesley, and, now, her. Why had he taken responsibility for the entire operation? Why was he the one who had to take care of everything and everyone?

"Because you're the captain," she said aloud.

"I'm sorry?"

She shook her head. "That's why you feel that you have to be the one making these decisions. You took charge because you're used to being in charge, as the captain of a ship."

"I-I hadn't thought of it that way."

They gazed into each other's eyes, sharing the kind of intense connection that had become more common and more powerful over the last few days.

"But," he continued, "I do feel responsible for the safety of everyone involved, including, now, you. Telling them the truth means risking their lives."

"I know I didn't like being kept in the dark. I was angry with you for not letting me decide for myself."

"Decide what? Decide to break the law, risk losing everything you have and suffer the death penalty?"

"You chose to risk everything." Beverly shot him a challenging glance.

He nodded in capitulation. "I felt that I had no choice. I could not live knowing that people were enslaved on my property. I had a duty to free them and, when the opportunity to do more presented itself, I couldn't refuse."

She nodded in admiration of his morality, with the shadow of the hurt that his duty had caused her in her eyes.

"Beverly, may I ask you a question?"

"Yes, of course."

Jean-Luc's face was serious. He folded his hands across his stomach. "In all our conversations about American culture, we never discussed the institution of slavery. You know where I stand, but you've never told me how you feel."

Beverly turned toward the window, deep in thought. "I've never owned a slave. No one in my family ever has. I've lived among them, but separate from them, all my life. When I started working with Dalen, he told me that he offered to provide medical care to them. It brought in extra money and it helped the large plantation owners keep their work forces healthy.

"Once I started treated black women, I realized that, although they look different from us, they're just like us. They're human beings. Their blood, the insides of their bodies, their births and their deaths. And if they're humans, how can we justify treating them like, like . . . ."

"Like property?"

She returned her gaze to him and spoke angrily, "Like animals." She sighed. "I guess I rationalized it because I was helping them. I would treat a black patient the same as I would a white patient. But, I wasn't doing anything to help free them." She looked into her lap. "I wasn't as brave as Miss Ro."

"Beverly." His voice was strong but soft at the same time and it compelled her to look up at him. She found love and reassurance in his eyes. "Don't chastise yourself for not doing what Miss Ro has done. It's dangerous work—at times, foolhardy. You have lived your beliefs by treating everyone equally and you've undoubtedly saved lives by providing medical care that they wouldn't otherwise have gotten."

"Frankly, I'm glad that you don't risk your life."

He gave her a half-smile, but his attempt to lighten the mood evaporated with her next words.

"Jean-Luc, I'm not happy about you risking your life. I—I don't want to lose you."

He held his hand out to her and she leaned forward to take it.

"You will never lose me, Beverly."

He squeezed her hand, but his promise, she knew, was not as solid as his grasp. Focusing on his eyes and his face and the confidence and commitment she saw there, she buried her nagging fears, and prayed they would stay buried.


	21. Chapter 21

Thank you, readers, for your reviews! They are encouraging and, sometimes, very helpful. For example . . . Many thanks and merci to Nordique1 for crucial French translation services! and A shout out to ukdgr, who pointed out a somewhat glaring plot problem that I (hopefully believably) address below!

Peace, Liz

* * *

For days, Q had had no leads in his investigation. After the vague account he had gotten from that nitwit O'Brien, the trail of the smugglers had apparently gone cold. But, then, he got another clue.

He had encountered Mrs. Picard—née Miss Ro—in town and inquired as to why she was conducting business instead of her husband. When the unusual woman explained that her husband had taken ill following a trip down south, he immediately deduced that the cause of Picard's "illness" was being inexpertly shot by the hapless O'Brien as he smuggled slaves through the county.

The only problem was that he lacked even one iota of evidence. Alynna Nechayev had offered him the vantage point of an upstairs bedroom window in her mansion, which looked out over the lands of her neighbors. From there, he only found, as she had reported, the slaves working extremely hard. No sign of anything out of the ordinary.

Next, Q took up a surveillance post in a tree in the woods not far from the main entrance to the Picard property. Watching the typical comings and goings of a large plantation bored him mercilessly. The Crusher woman came and went with her medical bag, as if pretending to be a doctor. Deanna Troi stopped by carrying a covered dish—food, no doubt, for the invalid, Q concluded. Madame Picard went to a sewing circle.

One hot afternoon, he drowsed in the sun after a particularly dull morning. His head drooped till his chin rested on his chest, which shifted his center of gravity and caused him to fall forward off his branch. Somersaulting in mid-air, Q landed with a thump and rolled down into the road directly in front of a wagon being driven by Worf. Next to him on the seat, sat Mr. Soong and Guinan.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Q," Guinan said. "What a surprise to find you lying in the dirt."

Although her words themselves were not impertinent, they were delivered with a tone that suggested the exact opposite. As though she thought that lying in the dirt was exactly where he belonged. Q had never liked Robert Picard's strange houseservant.

"What I am doing is none of your business, impudent slave," Q snapped as he pulled himself up and dusted himself off. "I'll thank you not to run me over, boy," he said to Worf, who immediately swallowed his pride and his anger. Talking back to Q, he understood, could only hurt him, and possibly jeopardize their mission. "What are you doing with the wagon?"

It took Mr. Soong an uncomfortable moment to realize that he was being asked a question, so accustomed was he to his companions handling their communications. "Par-pardon me?"

Squinting, Q moved closer. He stood next to the seat, where Guinan sat up straight, eyes forward. "What are you doing with the wagon? Just returning from a trip into town?" He made it sound like something improper.

"Oh, uh, we are just back from town with some supplies we needed," Mr. Soong answered.

"Supplies? Really?" Q moved quickly and yanked the cover off the back of the wagon. The space was filled with barrels, boxes from France addressed to Marie, bags of sugar, oats and flour, and a net filled with an unfamiliar fruit. "What is that?" Q asked of the fruit.

This time, Guinan did answer. "Captain Picard developed a taste for tropical fruit in his travels. We sometimes find it at the market."

Q pulled a knife out of a scabbard at his side and cut the net open. He extracted a dull orange, round piece and set the net down in the wagon. If Picard liked it, then he wanted to try it. He rubbed it against the lapel of his jacket to dust it off, then almost bit into it. Stopping himself when he saw three sets of eyes on him, he decided to dismiss Picard's lackeys, lest they see him embarrass himself by tasting a food he disliked.

"Go on, then. Be off. Your master awaits you."

"Y-yes, sir."

The drove the short distance to the driveway and turned on to Picard property. They had already driven around to the back when Worf noticed Guinan's hand gripping his arm.

"Is something wrong, Guinan?" Worf asked, looking into her worried face.

Worf pulled up alongside the kitchen and Mr. Soong hopped off to find Geordi.

When they were alone, Guinan replied. "Yes, something is definitely wrong. It seems that Q's patrol is searching in our part of the county and that Q himself is focusing on us."

"He did not find anything of note."

"Not this time. But, what's going to happen the next time he looks in the back of our wagon?"

Worf was worried.

"Oh, great, you got mangos!" Geordi said, as he hefted the net from the wagon. "The captain will be pretty happy."

* * *

"Jean-Luc, we need to talk."

Marie made her announcement standing by the open door to his bedroom. Beverly had just left, after sharing dinner and stories of her busy day with him. He closed the book that he had been reading, _The Short Stories of Washington Irving,_ and gave her his full attention.

"Of course, Marie. Please, come in."

She sat in the chair he had come to think of as Beverly's, but her face could not have appeared more different. Wrinkles creased her forehead in the frown that he had seen more often than not when she addressed him these days. She squared her shoulders and folded her handkerchief in her lap.

"Jean-Luc, I am _not_ going to stand by and watch you hurt Beverly again. She is a good friend of mine and she doesn't deserve to be treated badly and, and taken advantage of by you. You're very fortunate that she even consented to treat you.

"I know you think a gentleman's affairs of the heart are his own business, but you are certainly not acting like a gentleman! I am going to speak with Beverly and encourage her to stay away from you in the future. For her own good."

Resolute, and quite proud of herself for standing up to her brother-in-law, Marie stood.

"Marie, please, let me explain."

Marie stayed where she was, but regarded him skeptically. "I don't see that there is anything to explain."

Jean-Luc attempted to negotiate, still intending to admit to her as little as possible. "There is actually a great deal to explain."

"Jean-Luc, there is no possible explanation for a married man flirting with another woman, especially someone as sensitive as Beverly. You are rude and hurtful and mean—"

"Yes, I am." Jean-Luc spoke louder, above Marie's tirade. "I have been all of those things, Marie, and I readily admit it. However, I am not married."

Marie scoffed. "What?"

"Please, sit. It is a very long explanation, one that I withheld from you for a very good reason."

Marie hesitated, as though making up her mind, but in reality, making him sweat. He did, in fact, appear alarmed at the thought of Marie driving Beverly away. His sister-in-law relished that sudden power over him, after feeling powerless in her relationship with him for so long.

Her chin held high, Marie slowly returned to the chair and sat down. "Go ahead, then. Tell me your very good reason," she said sarcastically.

In the time it had taken Marie to decide to listen to him, Jean-Luc had realized that he could not hide any aspect of his illegal operation from her. She was too close to him to believe that Roe and he were merely pursuing financial gain. In addition to not wanting to lie to her as a matter of principle, he had no desire to weave a tangled web of deceit in which he would eventually be trapped. But he had more than a little trepidation as to how she would react.

He sighed. "Marie, since I first arrived here, I have been uncomfortable with the knowledge that the wealth that we earn on this vast property derives entirely from the labor of a people wrongfully enslaved." He paused to allow her to process his words.

She was not inclined to do so. "What? What are you talking about?"

"Marie, slavery is wrong. I could not tolerate it on my property."

"But, I don't understand. Jean-Luc, they're our workforce. They live here. This is their home."

"It is not their home by choice, Marie, but by force."

She wrinkled her nose. "But they're happy here."

Jean-Luc took a deep breath and spoke calmly and slowly. "No, Marie, they're not. Some of them have learned to hide their true feelings. Some of them have learned to adapt to their circumstances. And some of them refuse to live in chains. They rebel or escape."

"But, they're not like us. They need us to take care of them and teach them how to live a civilized life."

"Marie, do you really believe that? Geordi manages a wide variety of tasks despite not being able to see. Worf motivates people to work far better than Mr. Soong does. You have to admit that Guinan is very intelligent and perceptive."

Marie was becoming more defensive. "Guinan is very close to me. You know I'm very fond of her and I respect her opinion."

"But you're not friends. She can't leave here whenever she wants. "

"Why, Jean-Luc," Marie laughed condescendingly, "you don't know anything about the black race. You haven't lived here among them in our society very long. You don't understand."

"But, Marie, I've traveled the world. I've seen Africans commanding their own ships, eating dinner in restaurants, selling goods in their shops. I've played poker with African men, I've—" he stopped himself before discussing the African women he had known. "In short, I have seen Africans do everything that people of European descent do. I see them as equal to us, not inferior, because I know them to be so."

"Oh, ridiculous. Because you saw a few in a saloon somewhere one time?"

Frustrated, Jean-Luc raised his voice to communicate his outrage. "Marie, they are human beings. And they are bought and sold like cattle. It is wrong!"

Marie stood up abruptly. "Don't you dare yell at me. Why are you even talking to me about this? What does this have to do with Beverly?"

Given her strong feelings about racial differences, Jean-Luc hardly felt like confessing the truth to her. He hesitated. He would have preferred to talk with her in an equal position, sitting in chairs, standing or at table. As he was, reclined in his bed, he felt frustrated and impotent. He made his decision.

"Marie, I avoided Beverly because I was smuggling slaves to freedom and I didn't want her involved."

Marie turned white. "What?"

Jean-Luc kept his voice even and his face unemotional. "Miss Ro and I collaborated on the Underground Railroad and helped runaway Africans to travel north to freedom. We pretended to be romantically involved to hide what we were doing."

Marie backed away from him then, eyes shifting toward the door, the windows—anywhere but him. "No, no, I don't believe it." She began to walk around the room like a caged animal, searching for some escape from the horrible truth. "It's not possible, it's not. You couldn't have."

Jean-Luc nodded soberly. "We did, Marie. We helped over 150 people from all over the South escape slavery and travel to the North."

"No, no."

"I was helping a family escape when I was shot by a local vigilante. That's when we contacted Beverly to ask for her medical assistance. She removed the bullet from my side." He began to open his pajama top to show her, but, from her position on the far side of the room, she held up her hand to block her view.

"Miss Ro and I have also freed over 100 people from our properties who have left. The people who stayed behind to work are all earning a wage for their labor."

Marie kept telling herself this was not happening. It could not be true. Yet, evidence of the truth crept unbidden into her mind: Jean-Luc had begun going out at night—she had heard him returning in the early hours of the morning; there did seem to be fewer black people milling about the property, in the kitchen, in the yards; and, most of all, the image seared into her mind of Geordi and Beverly Crusher standing in her hallway carrying bloody clothes the day that Jean-Luc had allegedly fallen ill. Too much blood for a nosebleed, she now realized and, perhaps, had always known.

Marie shook her head violently as she patrolled the room. "I don't believe it, no. How could 100 people have left? How could you run a plantation without . . . ?"

He noticed that she suddenly seemed uncomfortable with the word "slave."

"We've built new machinery that does the work of many men. We've had a record harvest and made excellent profits. And, a large number of the people who lived here are gone."

"Gone? Gone where?"

"To the North, to freedom."

"But, but, Robert _paid_ for them! You just let them walk away? Oh, I wish Robert were here! He would know what to do. He never liked you. Now, I'm trapped here with you and you're going to destroy everything we have." She began to cry.

Jean-Luc wished _Beverly_ were there because she would certainly know what to do more than he did. In hindsight, he could see that it would have made sense for the two of them to have broached the delicate subject together with Marie. Now, alone, he was faced with the unenviable and, to him, undecipherable task of comforting a woman grieving for her dead husband and for a dying, immoral institution.

He decided to follow his heart and speak the truth. "Marie, I don't know what Robert would do if he were here. He was a businessman and I am not. But, I would like to think that he would be happy with a solution that makes the land profitable without enslaving human beings."

Having stopped next to the divan, Marie grabbed a pillow and threw it across the room. "No! Robert would _not_ be happy! Don't you see what you've done? You've put all of us at risk. We could lose all of our property, the house, everything, if you are arrested. Jean-Luc, you would be hung."

"Yes, I understand that I would face death if I were caught. But, Marie, I would rather risk death than continue to hold human beings as slaves."

"What about me? I didn't ask to join you on your crusade. Why should I lose everything I have?"

Jean-Luc sighed. "Marie, if we lost our land, then perhaps that is how it should be. There is no mechanism in the law to seize your belongings, your private property. The law would not take all the money that we've earned from slave labor. Surely, you could purchase another house to live in."

" _C'est invraisemblable de penser que vous ayez les mêmes parents. Le sang des Picard ne coule pas dans tes veines. Tu n'es pas le frère de Robert."*_

Marie stormed out of the room. "I wish you would just leave this house and leave me in peace!"

Jean-Luc lowered his head to his hand and rubbed his forehead.

*English Translation: "It's impossible to think that you have the same parents. The blood of the Picards does not flow in your veins. You are not Robert's brother."

* * *

"Mm, mm, I do love your oatmeal, Beverly."

"And I love having someone appreciate my oatmeal, Dalen."

Beverly sat down across from Dalen to eat breakfast. It was their longstanding habit to begin the day at her kitchen table, eating, drinking coffee and going over the day's schedule. Since they both liked routines, and this one enabled them to work more efficiently—another shared value—it was more or less a sacrosanct ritual.

On this morning, however, Dalen intended to interrupt it. "I noticed that you've started to wear your hair down."

Beverly's spoon paused in mid-air, ever so briefly, before she resumed eating. She had assumed, without asking him, that Jean-Luc would prefer her with her hair down. She pinned the front pieces back with a barrette, so that they would not get in her way while she was treating patients. Ah—Dalen was not asking because it affected her work.

Not looking up at Dalen, she responded, "I thought I would like a change."

He spoke casually, taking time with his observation. "This time of year, weather's getting so hot. That doesn't seem like a particularly sensible change to make now."

"If I get too hot, I'll simply put it back up."

She was beginning to sound peeved, Dalen noticed. He backed off and ate for a few minutes. They avoided eye contact.

"I'm going out to see Julianna Soong again. Do some gardening before it gets too warm." Beverly returned to eating after communicating her morning schedule.

"You'll be back in the office in the afternoon?"

Beverly nodded. "I'll be back by late morning."

Dalen mentally prepared himself. "Are you going to head out to the Picard house later?"

In his voice, Beverly heard him tiptoeing around the issue. She had been with Jean-Luc every day since she had confessed her love and Dalen had noticed the changes in both her and her mood. This is it, Beverly realized, this is the time to tell him.

She took a deep breath. "Dalen, I have some things to tell you about Jean-Luc . . . and me."

"Oh?" Dalen knew she would never believe his innocence. He sat back in his chair to give her some space to answer.

She stopped eating and looked at him. "I'm afraid it's going to be rather shocking."

"Oh, dear." Dalen had not meant to say that out loud. Apparently, things with Jean-Luc had gone farther than he had imagined. Was Beverly pregnant? Was she going to ask his help to end her pregnancy? Dear God!

Unaware of the road his mind had traveled, she dabbed her napkin to the corners of her mouth then picked up her coffee mug. "Although, not shocking in the way you might have expected."

"Oh?"

"No." Beverly shook her head and held her cup in her two hands as she began. "Jean-Luc and Miss Ro were never romantically involved."

"No?"

"The Jean-Luc that we knew before Lwaxanna Troi's barbecue—that's the real Jean-Luc. In fact, he told me how he felt about me, at that very barbecue. That's when I fainted."

"Really?" Dalen was skeptical, to say the least.

"But, nothing that he did afterward made any sense. One minute he was staring at me, then the next he was dancing with Miss Ro. In June, he was picnicking with me and, in August, he was dining with her."

Dalen nodded, amazed that Beverly could recount the recent history, which had caused her such misery, as if she were talking about the harvest and the price of cotton last year.

"It turns out that the two of them were conspiring together and they concocted a courtship to throw everyone off the trail of what they were really doing."

"What was that?"

Beverly instinctually lowered her voice, even though no one could have heard her. "They were helping escaped slaves travel north."

Dalen's eyes opened wide. "No! The Underground Railroad?"

"Yes. Miss Ro had been conducting these activities," Beverly smiled at her play on words, "for years. She met Jean-Luc at the barbecue and invited him to join her. As you know, Jean-Luc is a man of principle and he feels very strongly that slavery is evil. When Miss Ro gave him the chance to help free people, he took it. From what everyone's told me—" she thought of what Deanna, Wesley, Guinan, Miss Ro and Jean-Luc himself had said to her—"he sacrificed his own happiness—being with me—in order to do so."

Beverly was beyond nervous. She had just confided to the man she considered a father that the man she loved was a criminal. By all rights, Dalen should be angry and he would certainly be within his rights if he ran directly to Sheriff Q to have Jean-Luc arrested. At the very least, she had given Dalen enough information to despise Jean-Luc as a cad for placing his ambitious, albeit illegal, work ahead of her.

Dalen clapped his hands together. "Well, isn't that something!" He was grinning, but Beverly was not sure why.

"Do you mean something good or something bad, Dalen?" She asked.

But Dalen was laughing and did not respond right away. Suddenly, he stood up. "Wait right here. I have to get something."

When he walked out of her house, Beverly grew alarmed. Was he going to turn them in? Was he on his way to the sheriff right now?

Dropping her coffee cup and knocking her kitchen chair over, she ran out the front door determined to stop him. She found Dalen on the porch of his house with a book in his hand.

"Dalen, please!" She cried. "Don't do this."

Dalen looked at her as though she had become a giraffe before his very eyes. "Do what? For goodness sake, Beverly, calm down." Taking her elbow, he steered her back into her house. "You can't walk around talking about that in public. What if someone had been walking past?"

"I had to stop you." She felt her heart still racing.

"Stop me? My dear, let me show you something."

He led her to the sofa and sat down next to her. "Patricia's sister, Christina, lives up in Pennsylvania and she sent me this book a few years ago. I keep it hidden behind the other books in my bookcase because it's practically a firebomb in these parts."

Beverly looked at the title when he placed it in her lap: _Uncle Tom's Cabin,_ by Harriet Beecher Stowe.

"Have you heard of it?"

She shook her head.

"Well, why don't you borrow it? But only read it in secret, where no one could walk in on you. Trust me, it will shake your beliefs about slavery to the core."

Beverly regarded Dalen with new eyes. "Do you mean, Dalen, that you're anti-slavery? Are you an abolitionist?"

He chuckled. "Heavens, no. I haven't done anything that could get me killed. But my sympathies lie with the Negro population living here." He turned serious. "I do think that the days of slavery are numbered."

"Really?"

"Yes, I think that this war that's approaching is going to change how we live very drastically and one of the first things to go will be keeping people in servitude."

His pronouncement of the future of the South made Beverly think about what that would mean for her society. Quickly, however, her thoughts turned to her personal situation. If slavery were outlawed, then Jean-Luc would no longer be a criminal. Maybe the coming war would be a good thing.

"Beverly?" Dalen saw her mind drifting. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Yes, I'm sorry. I was just thinking about what you said. What would you like to know?"

Dalen's sudden blushing caught him by surprise. "What exactly is going on between Jean-Luc and you?"

Beverly grew pink herself. "Well . . . we're in love, Dalen. We're deeply in love with one another and we love spending time together."

"Oh, my dear," Dalen's voice cracked. "I'm so very happy for the two of you." He took her face in his hands, leaned her toward him and kissed her forehead.


	22. Chapter 22

Guinan felt rather than saw trouble approaching. Moving to the front door, she saw Q, riding up the driveway to the house. "Geordi," she called, "I need you to take Mr. Q's horse."

The tall man dismounted and handed the reigns to Geordi. "Careful with my horse, blind man. I'll have you beaten to death if anything happens to him."

He looked up on the porch at Guinan, who appeared not in the least afraid of him. Q disliked owners who allowed their slaves to be so impertinent and, over his years in the county, he had come to dislike this particular slave the most. Whenever he had visited Robert Picard, Guinan had always looked as though she knew what he was up to. Even though he knew that was impossible, her impervious manner grated on him. He could not help nor hide his annoyance.

"I need to see Captain Picard immediately, woman," Q announced. "Go fetch him."

"The captain is ill and cannot see anyone," Guinan responded, serenely.

Q jumped up on to the porch and stood close to Guinan, glaring down at her. "I don't believe you."

Not afraid to maintain eye contact, Guinan kept her eyes on his. "Why don't you come in and have some tea while I get the doctor to explain it to you?"

"I don't want any tea. I want to see Picard."

"Suit yourself. You can wait without tea." She led him into the front parlor.

"The doctor will be here momentarily."

Q did not sit down. Fuming at the slave's attitude, he spoke out loud, to himself. "No other colored woman uses words like 'momentarily' and no slave in the entire country would dare to look a white man in the eye and refuse to do his bidding, especially my bidding."

"I'm sorry. Am I interrupting?" Beverly asked as she entered the room, with a stethoscope, a smirk and Guinan's instruction to stall the unwanted guest.

Q was shocked anew. "Beverly Crusher? _You're_ the doctor? Well, I suppose that makes sense if your aim is to kill the patient in revenge for his shoddy treatment of you."

The insult immediately sparked Beverly's temper, but she had her instructions. She smiled. "Actually, Q, you may not know this about me, but I've been studying medicine for some years now, as well as working alongside Dr. Quaice." She sat on a loveseat. "I often treat patients when the doctor is busy elsewhere. Won't you sit down?"

Q squinted. Something was definitely going on, he concluded. "I have an urgent matter to discuss with the captain. I need to see him immediately." He spoke with the air of a man used to getting what he wanted.

His arrogance fueled the fire. Her voice rose. "As Captain Picard's physician, I recommend that he rest now and not be disturbed. He's quite ill."

Q's loud voice carried throughout the first floor of the house. "You are not anyone's _physician,_ you are a woman. An aging widow of average intelligence whose looks are on the verge of capitulating to gravity and dryness. I demand to see Picard."

Consumed by her anger, Beverly rose and crossed the room to speak directly into his face. "You are many things, Q, but you are definitely not qualified to tell me that I don't know medicine. I'm as good a doctor as any man and better than many of them. All you do is ride horses and threaten people all day. Maybe you scare businessmen and landowners with your bluster and your guns, but I've seen better men than you naked and covered in boils. You don't scare me one bit.

"Now, I've examined Captain Picard and determined that he is very ill and quite possibly contagious. No one is allowed in his sick room, not even you."

"You can't stop me."

Q brushed past her. Beverly grabbed his arm, but, instead of slowing down, he dragged her forward with him. She began to struggle and stopped him at the foot of the stairs. He turned to face her, his eyes wild with rage and his hand raised to strike her.

"Dr. Crusher!"

The unfamiliar title drew Q's attention. He whipped his head around to see Guinan standing in the upstairs hallway.

"Dr. Crusher, I think you should take a look at the captain. He seems to be getting worse."

Trembling, but seizing her chance, Beverly gathered her skirts and ran past Q up the stairs. He followed. She was in such a hurry that she did not notice the smile Guinan surreptitiously gave her.

Beverly stopped at the bedroom door, her hand wrapped around the doorknob, and turned to face her pursuer. "You can't go in here," she said forcefully to Q.

The tall man's eyes flamed with anger. "I can and I am." He covered her hand on the knob and pushed her chest with his other hand. Beverly gasped and he took advantage of her shock to open the door.

Q burst into the bedroom. When he approached Jean-Luc's sick bed, however, he abruptly backed up, pushing Beverly, close on his heels, backwards. She walked around him to look at her patient.

Jean-Luc's face, chest, arms and hands were covered with red hives. "Beverly," Jean-Luc whined, seemingly oblivious to Q and Guinan standing behind her. "They itch." He scratched at his arms.

Exchanging a quick but informative glance with Guinan, Beverly strode over to the bed and pulled her patient's hands away. "That's a natural course of the disease, Jean-Luc, but you mustn't scratch them."

"What?" His confused look made him appear delirious.

Q took more steps backward.

Beverly wet a washcloth and placed it on Jean-Luc's forehead and made a great show of checking on him with the stethoscope. She half-turned her head toward Q. "Now do you believe me? He's very ill and obviously contagious. Please leave me in peace to make sure he doesn't die from exposure or infect anyone else."

Q glared at Guinan. "It wouldn't surprise me if _you_ had something to do with this."

Outwardly serene, Guinan saw Q out and only returned to the bedroom after she had watched him ride off the property. She found Beverly crushing the wide leaves of an aloe plant on Jean-Luc's nightstand.

"Guinan, how in the world did you manage to cover Jean-Luc in hives? And so quickly?" Beverly stared at the woman.

Guinan shrugged. "I took an educated guess. Monsieur Robert was very allergic to strawberries. I figured if the captain was, too, we'd have our disease."

Beverly suppressed a laugh.

Jean-Luc was not amused. "So, I am to endure these damned—"

"Don't scratch them," Beverly pulled his hand away, "or you'll have scars."

"For how long?" Jean-Luc angrily finished.

"They usually go away in a week or two," Guinan said calmly.

"Two weeks? This is _not_ funny, Beverly."

Laughing, Beverly mixed the salve she had extracted from the leaves. "I think it's the perfect visible 'disease' and you ought to thank Guinan for saving your secret and your life. Now hold still."

She began to gently apply the lotion to the red spots on his arms, which looked, she thought, not unlike strawberries themselves.

Jean-Luc sighed, exasperated. "Thank you, Guinan. Your quick thinking saved several lives today, including mine. I only wish you had thought of something less uncomfortable."

Even as he spoke, however, Beverly had begun to massage the lotion into his cheeks, allowing him to enjoy the regal contours of her lovely face, quite close to his. As usual, when she treated him, she was focused on her medicine. Her hand moved down to cover his neck, then to spread the cool, white cream on to his chest. Her touch soothed his temperament as well as the itching he had felt. A contented "mmm" escaped his lips without his being aware of it.

Smiling, Guinan silently left the room.

* * *

Marie sat at her dressing table and removed her jewelry. A quiet knock on the door, as expected. Guinan entered and turned down the bed for Marie, then crossed over to help her out of her clothes. Last night, shortly after her argument with Jean-Luc, Marie had taken comfort in Guinan's familiar ministrations. No matter what her insane brother-in-law had said and done, Marie felt that Guinan's and her relationship was good-amiable and appropriate. Nothing would change that.

One night later, Marie sat forlornly in front of her mirror and questioned everything about her life. She caught Guinan's reflection behind her.

"Is everything all right, Madame?" Guinan asked.

Marie could sense that her companion knew that nothing was all right. "Oh, Guinan," she breathed. "I don't understand what's happening. I thought things were fine the way they were. Is that so wrong?"

Guinan started to take the combs out of Marie's hair, their regular routine. "Madame, you're a good person, with a good heart. I know that you would never want to hurt anyone."

"I wouldn't."

Guinan began to brush her hair. "But, people don't know what they don't know. When Monsieur Picard and you first moved here, you knew about cultivating grapes but not about cotton. You only knew about cotton because you learned from experts, Mr. Soong and Worf. If you had arrived here and talked to someone who thought he knew about cotton, but wasn't really a good farmer, then you would get bad information and everything you knew about cotton would be wrong."

Marie looked at Guinan's serious face in the mirror as she gently worked tangles out of her tresses.

Guinan continued. "In France, you didn't live among people of African descent. You didn't know anything about us when you came here. You listened to the people you thought were the experts—Mr. Kyle Riker, Mr. Q, Mrs. Nechayev. You had no way of knowing that they were not experts at all."

She finished brushing then began braiding Marie's hair.

"After living here for so many years, though, you have some information to form your own opinions. You've gotten to know some of us fairly well. You see how Worf is a hard worker and a good father to his son. You know Geordi is very smart, but lovesick. You've met Silva, who likes to be in charge of things. And you know me.

"Do you really believe all those things you were told about black people?"

Marie looked down at her combs and brushes, but said nothing.

Guinan moved on, to the lotion that she rubbed into Marie's face and neck each night. "Perhaps, Madame, if you re-evaluated your views about us, you might become very uncomfortable with your lifestyle. If you did some soul-searching, you might not like what you found."

Guinan's soothing circles with the lotion helped to calm Marie; otherwise, Guinan's dissection of her guilt would have most likely caused some tears. When Guinan paused, Marie chanced to speak. "Guinan, do you hate it here? Do you hate me?"

Her answer was another one of the mysterious woman's enigmatic smiles. "I'm no longer a slave, Madame. Since I'm earning a wage, I have to admit that this is a pretty good job and I like working for the captain and you. But, if I didn't have my freedom, then I would definitely hate being here with no choice about where I lived or what I did.

"I wouldn't hate you, though, because I don't believe in hating people, even slave owners."

"You don't?"

Guinan shook her head. "I believe there is a higher power that we all answer to. Just as good people receive their reward, bad people get theirs."

"Do the others hate me?"

Guinan shrugged. "Some of them do. Just like with white people, there are a lot of different personalities on this estate. Some people are forgiving, but some are fueled by anger and resentment. Most of the angry ones have left since they were freed."

"Are—are all of the black people living here free now?"

"Yes, the captain saw to that."

Marie began to see her brother-in-law in a new light. Perhaps he was right about some of the things that he had said about black people, but, still . . . .

"Guinan, I'm afraid."

Finished with the lotion for now, Guinan stepped away to retrieve Marie's dressing gown and lay it over the chair, which Marie vacated by standing up next to it. Guinan began to undo the buttons on the back of Marie's rather elaborate dress.

"Afraid of what?" She asked Marie.

"Many things. I'm afraid the blacks will riot against the whites and kill us all!" She stepped out of her dress and Guinan removed it.

"That won't happen."

"How can you be so sure?"

Guinan began to unbutton Marie's corset. "Because the white people have all the guns. They have armies. And, most importantly, they have power. They've scared black folks into thinking that they aren't strong enough or smart enough to fight the whites. They've cowered too many of my people. Especially now, when the white people will be raising a new army, there won't be a national rebellion."

Marie exhaled, partly as a result of being freed from the constricting garment. "Rebellions happen all the time. We hear about them."

"But people here won't rebel because they're free. They're earning and saving their money."

Marie sat back down in her chair, sideways. Guinan kneeled in front of her with the lotion and began to apply it to her arms and legs.

"What if they all leave? There would be no one here to work the land."

"There will always be freedmen and women to work here, Madame. The captain pays a good wage and that's something that's hard to come by for a black worker in these parts."

Marie's face darkened. "What if he's caught? They'll kill him, won't they?"

Guinan sat back on her heels and lifted Marie's feet into her lap to rub the creamy liquid into them. "Yes," she said matter-of-factly. "They'd kill the captain, but he's not afraid."

"I don't understand how he couldn't be."

"And you shouldn't worry about yourself."

"I shouldn't?"

"The captain has provided for that contingency. If something happens to him, you will return to France. Monsieur Picard and you earned a great deal of money over your time here and the captain added a very large sum to that."

"He did?"

Guinan nodded. "The captain has given all this land to us, the black people who live here."

"What?"

"And he deposited in your account in Paris a sum equal to half the value of the land."

The women stood and Guinan unbuttoned Marie's undergarment.

"Where did he get the money that he gave to me?" Now naked, Marie stepped out of the clothing and Guinan picked it up.

Guinan shrugged. "He just had it." She lifted Marie's nightgown over her head and arms and it fell, covering her body.

"Good Lord! All these things happening! And what if I can't _get_ to Paris? What if they won't let me leave and get to safety?"

"The captain has a plan for that, too. His lawyer here, Mr. Hanson, and his agent in New York, a Mr. Keel, will help you travel."

"Guinan, this is an awful lot to get used to." Marie walked over to her bed.

"I know, Madame, but you can get used to it." She turned down the bedcovers.

Marie climbed on to the large, soft mattress. "What makes you think so?"

Guinan covered her. "Well, you came here from France and got used to the English language, the hot weather, the American South, our food, a large plantation and living among black people. This isn't _that_ big a change. And, if you think about it, the changes the captain made are really more in keeping with your culture and your beliefs. You just need some time to remember that."

Marie stared at her servant, for that was what Guinan now truly was. "Good night," she finally said.

Taking the candle with her, Guinan smiled, said, "Good night, Madame," and left Marie alone in the dark with her thoughts.

* * *

The humidity soared. Bugs buzzed around Beverly as she passed the pond on her way back to town from Jean-Luc's house. Puddles dotted the road and Beverly had to pay attention to where she walked, which proved challenging, as her mind kept wandering to the morning she had spent with Jean-Luc. He had excitedly told her of his plans to convert his plantation and Miss Ro's into a village, surrounded by plots of farmland. One day, he envisioned, the Africans living there would own their own homes and enough land to feed their families and earn a living. He was such an incredibly courageous and brilliant man. Beverly loved how his face lit up as he described the bright future he hoped to give the men and women who had labored for his family.

She heard a horse clopping up the road far behind her, pulling a wagon or carriage. With the weight of the moisture upon her, she kept walking. Her progress was so slow, she thought, stopping to watch the wagon catch up would only delay her longer.

Thus, Beverly had only just turned around when the carriage was nearly upon her. She recognized Homn, the tall, quiet man from the Trois' household driving. Apparently, he handled a variety of chores for the family.

"Yoo-hoo, Beverly!" Lwaxanna's unmistakable voice sang out as they came abreast of her.

"Hello, Mrs. Troi, how are you?"

"Horribly hot," Lwaxanna responded, as she fanned herself. "What a day to be outside! But I have a new dress that's ready in town. I simply must try it on before the party at Mrs. Nechaeyev's tonight."

She spoke as though Beverly would, naturally, attach a similar significance to buying a new, store-bought dress for a social occasion. And, as though Beverly were, naturally, invited to Alynna's party, which she was not. Content with herself and secretly thrilled with her new relationship with Jean-Luc, Beverly felt no need to indulge Lwaxanna, but also no need to contradict her.

"Of course," Beverly said evenly.

Fanning furiously, Lwaxanna leaned out of the carriage and patted Beverly's arm. "I just wanted to tell you, dear, that I think that you are a complete angel to take care of that horrid Captain Picard, after everything he's done to you."

"Oh." Beverly had not realized that her treatment of Jean-Luc was common knowledge. Q had visited them only yesterday.

"For heaven's sake, I'm so glad that my lovely Deanna didn't get involved with him. Anyway, I know that it must be painful for you. I just want you to know, that if I can do anything for you, my dear," she patted Beverly's arm again, "anything at all, please let me know. Oh, you sweet girl."

"Actually—"

"Do go on, Homn. I'm practically melting out here and I'll have to have time to dry off and try the dress on."

Homn cracked the whip against the back of the horse. Lwaxanna waved her fan behind her as they drove away.

"Actually," Beverly said to herself, "I could use a ride into town. I'm practically melting myself."

Still contented with the memory of her love, Beverly only smiled at the disappearing carriage and its self-absorbed occupant. She batted some gnats away then continued her walk.

When she reached the outskirts of town, another carriage, with an occupant far more sympathetic to her plight, rode up.

"Mom?"

Beverly had not bothered to turn around, even as she heard the horse and conveyance descend upon her. At the sound of her son's voice, she looked up, shading her eyes. Wesley sat comfortably in Dalen Quaice's carriage.

"Come on, I'll give you a ride."

She immediately climbed in, leaned back against the seat and sighed. "You have no idea how happy I am to see you right now."

"I can imagine. It's really hot and muggy today." Wesley gave the reins a gentle tug and the horse started moving.

"What were you doing out and about in the carriage?" Beverly asked.

Was it her imagination or did Wesley appear secretive? He seemed to pause before answering and his jaw moved as though he was about to say something, then thought better of it. His eyes stayed on the road, without a glance at his mother.

"Nothing. Just some errands. For Miss Ro," he answered.

Ordinarily, Beverly would not have pried, but his manner piqued her curiosity. "What kind of errands?"

Wesley shrugged. "Um, I delivered some letters for her and bought her some yarn and cloth."

By this point, Beverly had learned from Jean-Luc that "errands" was a code word for helping escapees. The other day, Ro had brought up the subject of resuming their operation, but Jean-Luc had adamantly insisted that it was too risky after the shooting. "Wesley, you're not," she paused to look around and ensure no one was within earshot, "helping people escape, are you?"

"No, no. Nothing like that," he said quickly. "Sometimes I just do real errands, Mom."

Beverly dropped the topic, but observed her son as he drove. Seemingly overnight, he had transformed from a gawky boy to a grown young man. Where he had formerly walked uncertainly, he now trod confidently. Where his voice had reflected insecurity, it now projected a strength. His shoulders looked broader, his height taller. He seemed to spend less time reading books at home and helping Dalen and her and more time working at the Picard property, engineering walls and tunnels, laying out the village Jean-Luc was creating and helping to save people's lives. When did he become such a busy, brave man, his mother wondered.

"Wes, we've never talked about . . . about what you're doing with Miss Ro."

Wesley looked uneasy, which surprised Beverly. Surely, she thought, he knows that I'm not going to reprimand him. "I admit, I was pretty surprised to learn that you were involved with such a thing."

Wesley just drove.

"How long have you been helping them with the railroad?"

It almost appeared to Beverly that Wesley exhaled. "Almost two years."

"Two years?"

"Well, I started by helping out in the tunnel. I made it larger and reinforced the walls. I didn't drive people until I got better with horses. Miss Ro and Worf taught me a lot."

Beverly marveled at all her son had done, without her knowing. A flicker of doubt made her question what she knew about Wesley. If he had been smuggling runaway slaves, what else could he have been doing that she did not know about?

"It's a very dangerous activity, Wes. I—"

"Mom." He looked at her now. "I'm not going to stop doing it. I know it's against the law, but I feel like Miss Ro does. It's wrong to own other human beings. I'm going to keep helping her free them."

Beverly saw conviction in his face and something else that she could not interpret. Above all, she understood that her son was making his own decisions and she was powerless to control him. All she could do was hope that everything she had taught him and given him throughout his life to this point was enough to lead him into his adulthood with the right values, knowledge and motivation to achieve his goals.

"Wes, I'm not trying to make you stop. I admire you for standing up for what you believe in. And I agree with you, too. I don't think it's right either. Just—just be careful, that's all."

"I will, Mom." This time, when he looked at her, she saw her son in those brown doe-like eyes. She tousled his hair the way she used to when he was much younger and he rolled his eyes at her the way he always did these days when she treated him like a child, outwardly embarrassed by and secretly delighting in her affection.


	23. Chapter 23

"Why don't you let me read to you today?" Jean-Luc suggested in a playful tone.

Beverly stood at the table on which several books were stacked. She had been reading to him since his injury, because he had at first been too weak to read to himself. After several days, however, he had begun to get regular reports from Mr. Soong on how the different plantation operations were proceeding. Miss Ro had come to the Picard house on a daily basis, in the event that any prying eyes might be watching her movements. She mostly met with Guinan, but occasionally visited Jean-Luc, too. While Beverly provided medical updates on the man who had been shot with Jean-Luc, Miss Ro passed along the news that the man, Ben, had offered to stay and help her after he recovered, along with his wife, Jenny. They had discussed the Underground Railroad and Jean-Luc had advised against resuming their rescue work, due to the increased scrutiny on them. Even better, the hives that had covered a good part of his upper body were fading faster than anticipated, possibly due to the lotions that Beverly religiously applied.

In short, Jean-Luc was feeling more like himself today and reading to her was exactly the kind of activity a healthy Jean-Luc would propose. As his physician, Beverly viewed his offer as a good sign and, personally, she was looking forward to hearing his reading voice again.

"All right," Beverly acquiesced. "You can read to me, but first I have to check you."

"Yes, sir," Jean-Luc joked, preparing himself for her usual inspection of his heart, lungs and stitches.

Once those were perfunctorily completed, Beverly stood up and announced, "I also have to conduct a different type of examination today."

"Oh?"

"When a patient has been bedridden for a long time, he sometimes gets what we call bed sores."

"Bed sores?"

"They're actual wounds that can occur when a person lies in one position for an extended period. We're not sure what causes them, but we know they can be avoided by moving the patient regularly. You've been lying here long enough, that this is something we have to consider."

He eyed her suspiciously. "What are you going to do?"

"Don't worry," she patted his arm. "For now, I'm just going to roll you over on to your side for a change of posture and, while you're lying like that, I'll check your back for sores."

Gracefully moving to the other side of his bed, she rolled his body over on to his good side. She examined his shoulders and back and found them thankfully free of any sores. His light pants covered the lower half of his body and she grabbed hold of the waistband to lower them.

He jumped.

"Beverly! What are you doing?"

She tried to calm him with a hand on his waist. "Relax. I have to check all parts of your body that have been lying on the bed. That includes your backside."

He grumbled under his breath.

"I'm a doctor, remember? I'm checking in a medical capacity."

Sighing over the sound of his complaints, she carefully lowered the top of his pants, conscious of his stitches and keeping his abdomen immobilized. Once the pants were bunched around his knees, she examined his bottom and thighs and found no bed sores. Then, she saw something else.

Beverly beheld Jean-Luc's body, not as a doctor but as a woman. His lean, smooth back. Narrow waist. His thighs, all muscle. And the firm, round cheeks of his perfectly sized bottom. She suddenly wanted to touch him there, to squeeze him. Combining her view with what she had seen of his physically fit chest and abdomen, his body was that of Adonis. She felt her face flush and wished she could unbutton the top of her dress to cool herself. Dizzy, her mind tried to devise a medical subterfuge for running her hand along the side of his hip.

"Beverly? Is everything all right?"

She was thankful he was facing forward and unable to look over his shoulder at her without straining his injured abdominal muscles. As a result, he could not see her reaction, her momentary lapse of professionalism.

She swallowed. "Yes, you're fine."

Hooking her fingers around the waistband of his pants, she slowly slid them up, allowing her knuckles to feel the taut skin of his strong legs. Her breath caught as she brushed against the softness of his bottom, and settled on the waist that she wanted to wrap her arms around. She quickly withdrew her hands. Beverly noticed her chest rise and fall with her rapid, needy breaths.

"I just have to check your other side," she managed to say.

"My other side?" His voice sounded panicked and he clutched the front of his waistband to him.

"The side you're lying on."

"Oh."

Beverly looked away, struggling to return to normal. As she walked around the bed, Jean-Luc rolled on to his back. Avoiding eye contact, she did not register the frantic look on his face. She kept her gaze low, first on the bedpost, traveling along the light cotton blanket on the bed, to his covered legs, to his pants, to his waist.

"I'll just, uh, check your right side." Her voice lacked its usual no-nonsense confidence.

Jean-Luc's arm blocked her from simply lowering his pants as she had done from behind him. She nearly asked him to move it, when she realized what he was covering up.

"Um . . . . All right. I'll just, uh . . . ."

Leaving his pants where they were, covering his body, Beverly slipped her hand underneath and, as she had just imagined doing, ran her hand along the right side of his hip. He jumped when she began, but she continued. His skin felt smooth, devoid of any sores. He flexed his leg muscle as she traversed his thigh.

Her examination complete, Beverly moved her hand more quickly—but perhaps more firmly, pressing into his flesh—on its return trip. Positive that she was the image of a crazed woman—flushed cheeks, panting—she swiftly moved away from the bed. Her back to Jean-Luc she poured herself a glass of lemonade at the table on the other side of the large room. Despite her shaky hand, she downed the cool liquid and set the glass noisily down on the table. _What in the world has gotten into me?_ She thought.

Jean-Luc tried to hold on to the memory of her touch. Although he had first felt embarrassed, he had gradually become excited by the thought of her looking at his naked body. When her soft hands had fluttered along his legs and hips, both his mind and his body had responded eagerly. When she walked away, he automatically bent his legs at the knee to discreetly conceal his erection. Sitting in bed, staring at her back as her shoulders moved up and down with rapid breaths, he wondered if concealment was the right response.

"Beverly?" He tried. "Should we—could we talk about what just happened?"

Beverly put a hand on the table to steady herself. She had no idea how to respond to that question. Eventually, her breathing slowed. Closing and opening her eyes, she shook her head, unable to turn around and look at him. "I'm sorry. I acted unprofessionally. I'm here as your doctor and I have a duty to act like a doctor, not like a, a . . . ."

"Lover?"

The softness in his voice as he said that forbidden word certainly was not helping her regain her professional demeanor. She closed her eyes as her imagination threatened to take over her body, which fought her furiously, with a tingling sensation in her breasts and a growing wetness between her legs. It took all her will to control herself. She drank more lemonade, then faced him. She leaned back against the table with both hands holding her up. He sat in the bed staring intently at her, not appearing as a weak patient, but as a virile man. A man who wanted her.

Her bosom heaved as her breath again became ragged. "Is that what we are, Jean-Luc? Lovers?"

If he could have risen from the bed, Jean-Luc would have shown her. In his mind, he pictured himself shoving aside the lemonade pitcher and glasses and taking her right there on the table. She was wearing the green summer dress, the one with the low-cut—for Beverly, at least—collar. Confined as he was, however, with his need pounding in his manhood, he felt on the verge of insanity. Could he even think clearly enough to have this conversation with her? No, he concluded, not at all.

"Beverly, I know that I am in love with you. And, I would very much like to show you, to prove to you how . . . ." Usually adept with words, Jean-Luc felt his ardor wither under her glare. Did she feel the same way? Did she feel the opposite—had he offended her with his bold talk of making love to her? She simply stood, as if frozen to the table, staring at him and breathing hard, her face a mask of undecipherable emotion close to the surface. "I'm, I'm sorry if I've upset you."

She looked down and shook her head. "No, you-I . . . . I don't know. It's been a long time since anyone made me feel like this." If she were honest, she would have admitted that no one had _ever_ held such a power over her. Of course, she had made love with her husband, but he had never reduced her to a senseless heap of libido with just his voice or his eyes. Because Jack's and her intimacy took place only in the dark, she had never feasted on the sight of his naked body and if she had happened to see some part of him unclothed, he always reacted modestly. In general, Jack had always acted much more _properly_ with her. Ah, that was the difference. Everything about Jean-Luc was just so provocative. "I think, maybe, it's a cultural difference."

"What do you mean?"

Beverly sighed in frustration. She was used to having the upper hand in conversations with men. Jean-Luc alone had the power to disarm her. She had the distinct impression that he was more experienced in these matters than she was. How could she possibly talk to him about this on an equal footing? A thought occurred to her. "Jean-Luc, how many women have you been with?"

"What?" His seductive expression immediately evaporated, replaced by a nervous frown. Her question had caught him off guard. She was immediately relieved.

In response, she merely raised her eyebrows.

"Beverly, my past doesn't have anything to do with us."

"Doesn't it? Don't you have a world of experience with the opposite sex that I lack?"

He sighed. "That was a very, very long time ago. I was a different man when I was young. I gave up those ways when I decided to dedicate myself to my career. And, anyway, with you . . . ."

"With me, what?" Beverly asked innocently.

Jean-Luc was amazed at how she could make him feel aroused one minute, then discomfited the next. "With you, everything is complicated."

She enjoyed watching him squirm. "Complicated how?"

He felt profoundly embarrassed at being forced to say it. How had the mood between them shifted so dramatically, from a sensual near-foreplay to putting him on the spot? Rather than say something foolish, he took some time to think, to try to put into words the wonderfully debilitating effect she had on him. "Beverly, with you, I feel a great importance to everything I say or do, more so than with any other woman I've known, because I . . . ." How was it that, in sixty years of living, he had never before been in this position? He found it difficult to look into her eyes and instead focused downward, on his blanketed knees. "Because I want you to love me the way that I love you and I feel as though . . . the worst thing that could happen to me would be if you were to reject me.

"I value you and my relationship with you more than I have any other woman." Fortified by finding the ability to speak again, however inartfully, he risked a glance at her and found her staring at him as though mesmerized, her taunting silenced. "So, I feel more at peace and perfectly happy in your company than I ever have with anyone, but at the same time childishly nervous that I will say or do something to scare you away.

"If I scared you just now, then please accept my apology."

Once the words had been spoken, he began to fear that his confession itself might have scared her. Beverly assuaged his concerns by walking toward his bed and sitting in her chair.

"Jean-Luc," she said softly, "you humiliated me in public, ignored me for months and, as far as I knew, married another woman. After all that, I still couldn't get you out of my heart. And I tried." She reached out and took his hand and he could feel her urgency. "Please don't worry about scaring me away. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

She gave him the exact reassurance he needed. He visibly relaxed and squeezed her hand.

All of a sudden, the tension that had built up between them was replaced with understanding, as though their bodies could now converse as easily as their minds did. The physical touch they shared began to reignite the flames that had burned only minutes ago. But, now, the flames did not threaten to destroy anything, but rather to build to a glorious conflagration. Beverly stood, to relocate to the edge of the bed.

A knock on the door.

"Hello?" Marie called out just before she opened the door.

Beverly dropped Jean-Luc's hand and they both turned to see Marie stick her head into the room.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

Beverly and Jean-Luc exchanged a look full of sorrow and irony. "No," they replied, together.

"Oh, good." Marie opened the door wide and stepped in. "I need to speak to you both. I've given a great deal of thought to everything that's been going on here and I wanted to talk to you. I don't want us to be angry or uncomfortable around each other."

"I'm not angry—" Beverly began to say, unaware of the acrimony that had grown between the two Picards.

"Marie," Jean-Luc interrupted, "does this mean that you accept what I am doing?"

"Well, I'm still not completely at ease about it, Jean-Luc. You are breaking the law, after all. But, I've come to understand certain things differently. Some of the objections that I rose, well, I've re-considered them. I'd like us to all be friends again." She looked from Jean-Luc to Beverly and back again.

Beverly smiled warmly at her old friend. "Of course, Marie!" She embraced the shorter woman, glad to be able to renew their friendship without the obstacle that Jean-Luc had presented while he was faux-courting Miss Ro.

Jean-Luc sighed, just getting over the lost moment he had just shared with Beverly. He was pleased that Marie was no longer at odds with him. He thought of her as a sister and believed that he owed Robert no less than to take care of her.

"I know!" Marie clapped her hands. "Why don't we all have lunch up here, with Jean-Luc?" She looked to her companions hopefully.

Still missing her closeness, and the recent possibility of more, Jean-Luc looked to Beverly, only to see her smirking impishly with the spark he knew so well back in her eyes.

"I think that's a lovely idea, Marie," Beverly said, turning to her.

"Wonderful! I'll tell Guinan." She stepped out into the hall to summon Guinan.

Jean-Luc regarded Beverly with a mixture of love and frustration. "Beverly, sometimes I think you will be the death of me."

She sat on the edge of the bed, grabbed his hand and held it to her cheek, causing him to sigh. She turned her face and kissed the back of his hand. "As long as it's _me_ who's the death of you, Jean-Luc, and not some other woman."

Never, he thought, basking in her attention, it is definitely you.

* * *

Kyle Riker, state Senator, lawyer, discreet ladies' man and gentleman farmer, had had a boy positioned at the telegraph machine for two days, awaiting news of war, which he believed would begin any day. The South only needed the spark to light the powder keg, and his sources told him that that spark would soon be lit. Once it was, he planned to relocate to Richmond and insinuate himself into the Confederate government. Though snubbed as Georgia's representative, Kyle nevertheless knew there would be opportunities for power and wealth outside the legislature.

He was surprised, however, when the young black boy returned to his house with a different message.

"Postmaster said you should see it, massuh."

"Indeed I should." Kyle re-read the message and began to form a plan. "What are you doing standing there? Go back to the post office and wait! Stay there until you have news of the war. And don't you dare move an inch from your spot in the corner or I'll beat you so hard you'll wish you were dead!"

The boy ran out.

"Edward!" he called to his butler. "Get my horse ready. I'm going over to Q's place."


	24. Chapter 24

A pivotal chapter . . . .

* * *

Miss Ro and Wesley drove the wagon as quickly as they could without appearing to go quickly. Their story was simple: Miss Ro had to bring more supplies and seeds to her land and Wesley was helping her to earn some money. The townspeople tended to think of the Crushers as poor, and Wesley was known to help Miss Ro, and others to make a little extra money. In the back of the wagon, underneath sacks of flour, sugar and seeds, next to a barrel of nails, lay three people, a man, his sister and her nine-year old daughter. They had traveled from the humid fields of Alabama, from the only home they had ever known, in a dirty shack on a plantation owned by a man who beat and raped his slaves regularly.

As Miss Ro had suggested, Wesley and she had gone to the next county, where they had met the fugitives at an abandoned mill away from any towns. They stopped casually in the county seat for provisions and a quick meal, then started toward home at dusk. According to the cover story they shared with the inquisitive country folk who asked, they lived just across the border into Hart County, and would be home by 10:00.

Actually, however, their journey would take nearly the entire night.

Not far from the Nechayev Plantation, Miss Ro heard a knocking on the seat. After a slow, careful look around in all directions, she gestured to Wesley to stop.

"What is it?" She whispered.

"My daughter have to relieve herself."

"She has to wait."

"She _can't_ wait. She gettin' the runs!"

Miss Ro looked at Wesley.

"We haven't seen anyone on the road for at least ten miles. I don't hear anything. Do you?" He said.

"All right. I'll come around the back and help her out."

Miss Ro jumped down in an unladylike manner and rounded the wagon. After another 360 degree scan, she lifted the cloth tarp and grabbed the girl by the ankles to slide her out. Accustomed to staying quiet, the girl said nothing.

"Come on." Ro took her hand and led her into the woods far enough to afford her some privacy, even though every step they took was a terrible risk. The sound of twigs snapping as they walked, the increasing distance from the wagon, the darkness—Ro was uncomfortable with this diversion and silently willed the girl to hurry.

As the girl squatted, Miss Ro suddenly heard the sound of quiet hooves. A horseman emerged from the forest on the other side of the road. She ducked down immediately next to the girl and behind a large tree, hidden from view.

"Well, well, if it isn't Wesley Crusher."

The tall man had appeared seemingly from nowhere and was now blocking their way on the road. _How come I didn't hear him,_ Wesley thought.

The man lit a lantern and held it up level with his face.

"Hello, Mr. Q," Wesley responded. "What brings you out tonight?"

Q rode closer to the wagon, "I was just about to ask you the same question." He stopped by the horse in its yolk, lifting the lantern to see more of the wagon and check its contents. "I'm out searching for some runaway slaves that were reported to be in Franklin County today. We figure they might be headed our way."

"Ru-runaway slaves? That's terrible." Wesley tried to sound concerned, but he was completely unprepared.

"Whose wagon is this?" Q asked in an authoritative voice, demanding cooperation.

"It's Mrs. Picard's, sir." Wesley swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. "I went to Franklin to get some provisions for her, some flour, seed and hardware. She's paying me for the trip. I do errands for her sometimes." He prayed that his answer would satisfy the deputy sheriff and allow him to pass.

"Really? You still do errands for her even though she's married to a wealthy man?" Q rode up alongside Wesley, towering over him on his horse. Wesley knew Q was trying to intimidate him and he knew it was important for him not to flinch, but he could not help feeling afraid. He wished Ro could have helped him—she would have known what to do—but he had answered the way he had to protect her. This way, whatever happened to him, she could still continue to help people escape.

"Yes, sir. I think she just keeps hiring me to help out my family." The young man hoped that he sounded sufficiently pathetic and poor.

"Is that so? The Chinese woman feels pity toward the old maid whose last chance at romance she stole away so cunningly."

Wesley froze. Q was trying to antagonize him, but he knew nothing good could come of him challenging his powerful elder. He wished Q would just ride away and leave him alone.

Q glared down at him as though he could read his mind. "Then you won't mind if I inspect the goods you have in the back here."

"Uh—"

Wesley spun around to stop him but he was too slow. Q ripped the cover off the backboard, revealing . . .

Rows of flour and sugar bags, barrels of nails and bags of seed. Everything was packed tightly as it would be after a visit to a large general supply store. Q lifted the lantern along the wagon, examining the cargo. Wesley began to breathe again, realizing that he might get away with his deception.

Disappointed, Q had begun to lower the cover when one of the bags of flour moved. It was slight, but it was enough. Q attacked the bag with his knife, spilling out the flour, then he lifted the opened bag to reveal the terrified woman lying beneath it.

Q leveled a pistol at her. "Don't move or make a sound or I'll shoot you dead." He smiled in sweet victory.

* * *

Ro had to give the slight girl credit. After Q led Wesley and the escapees away at gunpoint, and as Ro and the girl waited and watched for any signs of other searchers, hunkered down in the leaves in the forest, the girl remained still and silent, without having to be told to do so. She had been on the run with her family for some time, though, which was probably good training. Plus, Ro thought, she had no idea what the young girl's life had been like before they had escaped.

"What's your name?"

"Sarjenka," the girl said in a tiny voice, looking into Ro's eyes fearfully.

Ro took off her sweater and wrapped it around the girl's shoulders. "That's a beautiful name," she said. "Sarjenka, we have to get through the woods to my property as quickly and quietly as we can. Do you understand?"

Sarjenka nodded.

"I need you to stay close by me and do whatever I say. Do you understand?"

Another nod. "What about my mama and Uncle Jim?"

Ro knew that they would either be returned to their owner or hung, but this was no time for the truth. "I'll try to help them, but I can't do anything for them until I get back to my house. Will you help me get back?"

Sarjenka nodded.

"All right. Follow me and do exactly as I say. Understand?"

Another nod.

Sarjenka shadowed Ro as the woman moved painstakingly slowly, careful to avoid stepping on twigs or leaves that might make a noise. Several times they stopped and lay flat against the earth to avoid detection by a rider searching the road and surrounding woods with a lantern. They kept far into the dark forest, where no one without a light would travel in the middle of the night. Occasionally, they heard horses' hooves on roads and men's voices in the woods, but they avoided detection.

After hours, they finally emerged near the road that led to the Ro property. All they had to do was run about two miles in the open, past the fields, to get to the gate. The sun was peeking over the hills in the east. Ro looked down at Sarjenka, seeing her serious face in the dim light. She realized that the girl knew what to do. She wouldn't have to say anything. Holding hands, they stepped out on to the road and started to run.

Just as Sarjenka tripped and cried out, Ro heard a horseman speeding up the road toward them. Nearly falling herself, she turned to check on the child and prepare a cover story as the rider approached and the hazy sunlight lit up his face.

Will Riker.

She froze, clutching Sarjenka to her. The big man on the horse looked as shocked as she was—more so, in fact, since she would have expected him to be part of the search party, but he had no idea that she was the person being sought. Ro knew Will was a good man, an honorable man. She had even kissed him once, long ago, on a night she had never forgotten. But nothing that she knew of his character suggested he would go against his neighbors, his race or, most importantly, his father.

Now, Will Riker sat on his horse above her, staring into her eyes, holding her life in his hands.

"Come on," Will said, extending a hand. "We don't have much time."

Not believing what she was hearing, but not hesitating to question, Ro lifted Sarjenka up into Will's arms. He sat her in front of him, then reached down for Ro and helped her up behind him. Without another word, he quickly started off toward her gate.

Her arms around Will, Ro said a silent prayer. She was too nervous to say anything out loud.

On horseback, they quickly reached the safety of Ro's estate.

Ro climbed down first, then took Sarjenka from Will.

"Will, I—"

"You better get going. Someone could come around the bend at any moment."

"You've done a very good thing today. Thank you." She took his hand and felt his warmth as he returned her squeeze. "I need to ask you one more favor. Can you get a message to Captain Picard?"

"I heard the captain is very ill."

"Tell him, my young friend has been arrested. He'll know what it means."

Then, because he was right about the threat of discovery, Ro turned and fled with Sarjenka, leaving Will behind to wonder about Ro and about what he had just done.


	25. Chapter 25

Another key chapter. Thank you for reading and reviewing! I enjoy hearing from you.

Be kind to others and to yourself. Have a wonderful day. ~ Liz

* * *

Always an early riser, Jean-Luc was sitting up in bed and reading a book when Beverly knocked on his door.

"Come."

"Time to examine and re-bandage your wound."

By this point, they had the procedure down pat. Jean-Luc removed his shirt to get it out of the way. Beverly laid out a clean bandage first, then unpinned and unwound the sweaty cloth from around his middle. Rather than have him lift himself up, thus stressing his injured abdomen, she leaned over him, carefully and slowly unwrapping him.

Checking for tenderness, Beverly moved her fingers softly across Jean-Luc's abdomen, oblivious to the reaction she caused in her patient. He fought to keep from being aroused, as she would undoubtedly notice, given how close she was to his pajama pants. Her arm, in fact, glanced his waistband once or twice. Mercifully, she stopped, then pressed down on the area of the wound firmly a few times.

"It's healing very well," she pronounced. "No problems."

"I had an excellent surgeon."

"You had a lot of good luck."

Beverly re-taped the bandage, content with her patient's progress. Only one other aspect of his care needed attending.

"Would you like to try to get out of bed?"

Jean-Luc's face lit up. "Would I? Most definitely." He set his book down and put his hands on the bed to lift himself.

"Hold on," Beverly cautioned. "You have to be careful not to strain the muscles near your wound. We don't want it to open up."

"How do I do that?"

"With help."

Beverly leaned over him and took his hands in hers. "Now, I'm going to pull you up into a sitting position. Try not to flex your abdominal muscles as you move."

Concentrating on following her command, Jean-Luc let her pull him up. He breathed in. It felt good to sit up straight after lying against his bed pillows for so long.

"How does that feel? Are you in pain? Are you light-headed at all?"

He shook his head.

"All right. Let's try to turn you sideways."

He allowed her to take his hands and pull him toward her, so that his legs dropped over the side of the bed.

"Do you still feel all right?"

"Yes," he answered, looking up at her. "Do you think I could stand?"

She raised her eyebrows skeptically. "That's a very big move for someone who just sat up for the first time in two weeks . . . but you do seem strong." She looked at him clinically. His color was good and he was sitting up straight with no sign of stress or weakness. Above and below the bandage across his abdomen, his musculature looked sound. He certainly seemed eager to get up, which was usually a good indication. "All right, you can try to stand up but only for a short time and if you feel pain or light-headedness, you need to sit down immediately."

"I agree to your terms." He smiled.

"All right, put your hands on top of my shoulders, that's it." Beverly squatted down halfway so that she could rise with him. She wrapped her hands around his sides to help him lift his body. "Ready? One, two, three."

On three, Jean-Luc rose and stood in front of Beverly.

All of a sudden, Beverly was acutely aware of her hands on his warm, bare torso. Of his hands gripping her shoulders. Of how close they stood to one another. Their eyes met. She felt hot as he looked at her, staring as though he never wanted to take his eyes off her. Her lips parted. Beverly's body seemed to take over for her worried brain. Her hands slid from his sides to his back. With a little pressure, she moved him closer. She felt his arms move around her back and he reciprocated by pulling her into his embrace. Her eyelids were half-closed when he kissed her.

Beverly's hungry lips tingled at the touch of his mouth. It had been so long for her. She felt her body respond to his warmth. How she had longed for this! His soft lips moving along hers. Gently, his tongue parted her lips and began to caress her own. His taste was intoxicating and she felt drunk as thrilling new sensations assaulted her mouth and her lips, over and over, then spread throughout her body. She felt her nipples harden and a sudden moistness between her legs. She moaned as desire overtook her.

Jean-Luc held Beverly against his hardness. He savored the feel of his hands on her back, the softness of her breasts pressed against his chest. This—this moment was what his body had longed for since he had first set eyes upon her. He ached to touch every part of her. His tongue kept entering her mouth, stroking her tongue and building his desire, reveling in the union of their mouths until they could truly be joined.

Their passion built and they sought to quench it with each other. His hands in her hair, her arms holding him against her as though her life depended on it. The wet heat of their mouths kissing each other, and their entangled tongues making love, as though they would never stop. The want of their bodies, growing more urgent. Jean-Luc slid a hand down her back, his heart pounding, to the curve of her bottom and below, cupping her and squeezing her closer against him. Beverly moaned and dug her fingernails into his shoulder blades.

A floor board creaked in the hall.

Beverly and Jean-Luc broke apart instantly.

Trying to compose herself, to cool off her heated body, Beverly turned away from him and toward the open door of the bedroom. No one walked by.

"Beverly."

She came back to him.

"I am feeling light-headed now."

With two fast steps, she was holding him again, lowering him slowly on to the bed.

"Aaah." Jean-Luc winced in pain as he inadvertently flexed his muscles to sit down. With Beverly's help, he carefully leaned back on to the stack of pillows on the bed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It would take some time, he thought, for his body to calm down from that experience.

He felt Beverly sit down next to him on the bed. Her dress brushed up against his pant leg. Oh dear, he thought, opening his eyes, this will not help me.

She sat staring at him and, for a moment, Jean-Luc feared that she would lean down and kiss him, right there on the bed, which was courting extreme danger, as far as he was concerned.

Determined to regain his composure, he found the courage to speak first. "I apologize. I shouldn't have been so forward. I hope you can forgive me."

Beverly looked away. "You don't have to apologize. I- I wish you wouldn't." Head down, she looked at the sheet crumpled up at the foot of the bed, away from him. "I hope you don't think I was too forward."

Certainly, any other man, or woman, for that matter, that she knew would have been appalled at her action. It was one thing to kiss a man—many unmarried women did that—but quite another for a woman to do so in his bedroom, unchaperoned, with her hands on his naked skin, pulling him in close to her. Doubts began to grip her. What if Jean-Luc would not be attracted to her now that he had seen how unladylike she had acted? Was she a bad person to give in to her base desires so easily? Why had she felt that way, so . . . so excited?

She felt him take her hand.

"Beverly." His voice was barely above a whisper.

Timidly, she looked at him. His face was kind, open, not judgmental.

"I need your help. I'd like to get up again."

She quickly reverted to medical mode. "Jean-Luc, that's not a good idea. You're still weak."

"Just for a short moment," he insisted. He started to sit up by himself to force her to come to his aid.

She did, pulling him into a seated position as before. From there, he stood up rather quickly, causing Beverly to frown.

"Careful," she warned, reflexively grabbing his bicep. She felt herself blush, involuntarily reacting to his toned body again.

Jean-Luc smiled reassuringly. "I feel perfectly fine." He set his hands on top of her shoulders, as he had before. "Now, you just sit down here."

At his bidding, Beverly sat back down on the bed, wondering what he was doing.

With a deep breath, Jean-Luc deliberately lowered himself down to one knee. He took Beverly's hands in his. Beverly gasped as she realized what he was doing. She hardly dared to believe what she thought was about to happen. She swallowed the lump in her throat, felt her pulse quicken and squeezed his damp hands. Her body threatened to react. She held her breath and looked into his soft hazel eyes.

"Beverly, I should have asked you this a long time ago. The very first time I laid eyes on you, I fell in love with you. You move me in a way that no one ever has before and I can't bear to live without you. I hope you can forgive me for my mistakes and for keeping us apart for so long. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?" Jean-Luc choked as he uttered the words he never dreamed he would speak. In this moment, however, he could think of nothing else but marrying Beverly.

Feeling light-headed herself, Beverly could not speak at first. Then, she started to shake her head. Jean-Luc felt his heart stop. She was rejecting him? What had he done through his course of folly these last months?

Through the fog of his growing panic, he noticed she was speaking. "But, everyone thinks you're already married!"

"I don't care. Let them think me a deserting rogue."

Beverly felt her heart pounding. She stared into his eyes and saw a sincerity, an urgency, that moved her. "What about your smuggling operation, with Miss Ro? It depends on the two of you—"

"We'll simply have to come up with another plan to conceal what we are doing. I can no longer pretend to be married to her when my heart belongs to you and I belong by your side. Beverly, you are my sunrise in the morning and my sunset at night. You carry my hopes and joys with you and my greatest wish is to devote my life to you and your happiness."

His beautiful words caressed her. No man had ever made her feel quite so special.

"Yes." Tears pooled in Beverly's eyes. "Yes, I will marry you."

Jean-Luc leaned forward, wincing slightly, and kissed her hand, letting his lips linger, then holding her hand against his cheek. They sat still for a moment, giddy with the promise of their future together, just gazing into each other's eyes and seeing

Another floorboard creaked in the hall. This time, they began to laugh. The joyful sound brought Marie to the threshold of the room just as Beverly pulled Jean-Luc up to the bed.

"Hello?"

"Of course, Marie, come in," Jean-Luc answered, with a cheerfulness in his voice that Marie had never heard.

"Oh." Marie stopped in her footsteps at the sight of Beverly and Jean-Luc sitting side by side on his bed, him bare-chested. Try as she might to think the best of her brother-in-law, he tested her. She was not sure what to make of Beverly sitting like that in a clearly non-medical position.

Beverly and Jean-Luc looked at each other and smiled. "Marie," Beverly said to her friend. "We'd like you to be the first to know."

"Know what?"

Jean-Luc took Beverly's hand and answered. "I asked Beverly to marry me and she has made me the happiest man in the world by accepting."

"Oh!" He tested her . . . . "Is it for real this time, Jean-Luc?"

Jean-Luc laughed heartily, a sight that Marie had never seen, a sound she had never heard.

Once he stopped himself, he looked into Beverly's sapphire blue eyes. "It is most definitely for real," he said softly.


	26. Chapter 26

With his cane, Q knocked loudly and impatiently on the door of Ro Laren's house. Finally, Silva, wearing nightclothes, her hair wrapped in a maroon kerchief, opened it.

"Can I help you?" She said, her voice and manner calm and regal.

Q barged past her into the dark entrance hall. "I've come to see your mistress, obviously."

"Mrs. Picard is asleep right now."

"Is she? I wouldn't be so sure of that if I were you. I must see her now. Fetch her." His voice became louder with each statement.

The woman made no effort to move toward the stairs. After a short pause, she turned toward the sitting room and lit another lamp. "If you'll just wait in here, Mr. Q—"

"Yes, yes, fine, whatever. Just get Mrs. Picard _now."_ He followed her into the room, his eyes darting up the stairs to catch a glimpse of movement, of any sign that Ro was already up and about.

"What shall I say this is regarding?"

Infuriated, Q raised an arm to hit her. Her eyes flashed and she moved out of the way with an unexpected speed. Also fast, Q instead grabbed her forearm and pulled him to her so that he could threaten her without raising his voice. "Get your mistress, now, _slave._ Or I will take you outside and flog you until the sun comes up, crosses the sky and sets again."

Once she was released, Silva straightened to her full height and looked Q in the eye, unafraid. "Yessir," she said, malice dripping from each extended syllable.

Q watched her walk—damnably slowly—across the room and up the stairs. After a moment, he heard her rap on the wood of a door.

"Oh, Mrs. Picard, ma'am?" Her voice was all sweetness and politeness. "Mr. Q. is here to see you. I'm sorry. I told him you were asleep but he insisted."

Muffled noises were all that reached the hallway. Silva repeated her message and added another apology. "I'm so, so terribly sorry for waking you, Mrs. Picard."

Now the internal voice was audible, even down the stairs where Q paced. "It's all right, Silva. I'm sure it must be some kind of emergency for Q to get me out of bed in the middle of the night."

Wrapped in a white dressing gown, with her hair loose and tousled, Ro Laren began descending the stairway, holding a hand up to cover her yawning mouth. When she noticed Q, she immediately turned to the woman behind her. "Silva, have you left Mr. Q standing in the hall like a beggar? Why haven't you shown him into the sitting room and offered him a beverage?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Picard, I tried, but—"

Q's bombastic voice stifled Silva's protests. "I don't have time for such pleasantries now." He glared at Ro, trying to divine whether she had in fact just woken or if she were concealing her involvement.

Ro reached the bottom of the stairs. "I don't know about you, Q, but I was taught that there is always time for courtesy and refreshments."

"Wesley Crusher was arrested an hour ago."

"Wesley Crusher?" Ro's face was full of surprise. "Why, he went to Franklin for me only yesterday. He was bringing back a wagon full of things we need. Arrested? How can that be? What for?" She looked to Silva, sharing her astonishment of the news with the older woman, who merely shook her head and shrugged.

Q circled her, staring deeply for any signs of deceit. "He was driving your wagon when he was arrested."

Ro turned at that news. "What about my supplies? Where are they?"

"What supplies was he picking up for you?"

Ro did not hesitate. "Flour, seed, maybe some sugar. I think we needed some nails and other hardware, too." Her pensive look as she recalled the items to be purchased hardened as she had a thought. "You can't keep those goods. I paid for them."

Q squinted at the underdressed woman, taking her measure. "I'm reasonably sure you can get your goods back. After the investigation, of course."

"What investigation?" Ro put her hands on her hips. "You still haven't told me what he was arrested for."

Q paused, taking his time to make her nervous and watch her reaction. He was disappointed when Ro simply stood in front of him, expressionless and apparently patient. "For smuggling fugitive slaves."

Ro gasped. "In my wagon? Oh my God." She took two shaky steps backward and Silva appeared out of the shadows to steady her, holding her arm. "My God, I can't believe it. Wesley? He's just a boy. How in the world . . . ?" She looked to Silva as if for an answer. Silva shook her head as if to say, you just never know.

Q continued to stare at her menacingly. Without warning, he reached out with his cane and lifted Ro's dressing gown at the bottom. Her bare legs were exposed for a second, until she backed away and flattened the material against her legs.

"Get out of here, you uncouth man!" One of her hands moved up to her chest reflexively, as if she suspected him of targeting that next.

"I had to make sure you didn't have clothing on underneath your nightclothes. Perhaps because you've just returned from a smuggling trip and tossed a gown over your clothes."

Ro stood up straighter and raised her voice. "I can't believe you are standing here insinuating that I'm involved with this crime. It's bad enough my wagon was used and my supplies are probably going to go missing. Not to mention that Wesley did a lot of work for me and now he's going to be rotting in jail."

" _If_ he's lucky," Q threatened. "So you claim not to have any knowledge of Mr. Crusher's illicit activities with your wagon?"

"Certainly not." Ro's dismissiveness was even greater than her outrage. "I asked you to leave, Q. I'll thank you to stop upsetting my household at this ungodly hour and take your leave."

The first light of the dawn was creeping into the house. Q took a penetrating look around the foyer, noticing the minimal amount of furniture and the shabbiness of the drapes. The walls were largely devoid of artwork. His estimation of the woman before him shrank. Left on her own to manage her estate, Ro clearly was incompetent, he decided. She probably could not smuggle a peach out of a tree, Q thought.

He decided, however, not to apologize. Apologies made a person weak. "I'll be keeping my eye on you, Mrs. Picard. Make sure you stay out of trouble." With that warning, he donned his hat, turned and showed himself out.

Silva squeezed Ro's arm where she had been holding it. Ro broke away and opened the front door. "Q!" He turned around. " _My husband_ will be keeping his eye on you after he finds out about this visit and your crudeness!"

She slammed the door closed and looked at Silva, who nodded her approval.

"I'll watch and make sure he leaves," Silva said.

Leaving Silva at the window next to the front door, Ro bounded up the stairs to the guest room next to her room. She rapped on the door. "Ben? Ben, it's me, Ro. It's safe now."

"You sure?" came the muffled voice from within the room.

Ro looked down at Silva.

"He's gone."

"Yes, I'm sure. Open up."

The door opened slowly to reveal Ben, wearing too-short pajamas, standing with great effort and holding a shotgun. He regarded Ro skeptically.

"It's all right. Q left."

After another moment to study her face, Ben decided to trust her. He limped to a wardrobe and opened it to let his wife out. "Ben?" She asked shakily.

"It's safe, now, Jenny, baby."

Ro crossed to the bed and knelt down on the floor to lift the bedspread up. She peered underneath the large structure.

"Sarjenka? It's me. You can come out now. The bad man is gone."

The child slowly crawled out. She looked at Ro then noticed the other two people in the room.

"Those are friends of mine," Ro explained. "Sarjenka, this is Ben and Jenny." She turned to the adults. "This is Sarjenka."

While Jenny offered the little girl a small smile and Ben tried not to look too intimidating, she stared at them in disbelief. Turning to Ro, Sarjenka asked, "You have friends who are black? You let a black man hold a gun?"

Unused to being around children, Ro felt awkward. "Yes, they are my friends. They're staying here with me for a while. I gave Ben my shotgun when I hid you in here so that he could protect Jenny and you."

Sarjenka's eyes opened wide. "They're staying here? In your house?"

Ro did something she rarely did. She smiled at Sarjenka. "Yes, they are. And you're going to stay with me in my house, too, until it's safe to move you."

With a glance back at Ben and Jenny, Sarjenka moved suddenly toward Ro and wrapped her arms around her neck.

Surprised, Ro recovered quickly and slowly embraced her new young friend.

Ben and Jenny exchanged a knowing look and reached out to hold each other's hands.

* * *

Guinan saw Will Riker ride up the driveway and stood on the front porch to meet him.

"Good morning, Mr. Riker," she called pleasantly. "What can we do for you this fine morning?"

Will dismounted. Guinan saw the look of urgency on his face as he tied up his horse and approached her.

"I have an important message for Captain Picard."

"I'm sorry. The Captain is quite ill and not receiving visitors right now."

"The message is from Ro Laren."

Guinan rapidly took stock of the man before her. His father was a staunch secessionist and a brutal slave driver. The son was known to be kind and honest, the exact opposite of his role model. She knew that he had once courted Miss Ro, but that the relationship had cooled. It was possible that Ro had gotten him involved with their work for good reason.

"Please come in."

From the Picards' sitting room, Will watched Jean-Luc descend the stairs slowly, with Marie Picard and Beverly Crusher each holding one of his arms. What a contrast, he thought, remembering the time that he had seen Jean-Luc carry an unconscious Beverly up the Troi's stairs. Jean-Luc was wearing typical planter's clothing, but something seemed wrong. Was he injured?

At the bottom of the stairs, Jean-Luc stepped away from the women and took command of the situation. He dispensed with the usual pleasantries. "Will, Guinan tells me you have a message from Miss Ro."

The African woman had joined them in the sitting room. "Yes," Will answered, "Miss Ro asked me to tell you, her 'young friend has been arrested.'"

Jean-Luc and Beverly exchanged worried glances.

"Wesley?" She asked Will.

"I don't know who she meant and, under the circumstances, I didn't think it prudent to ask."

"What happened?" Guinan asked.

Will was startled to hear a question directed at him from a house servant. But the events of the last few hours had shown him that the comfortable order of his world was about to be shaken up.

"Yesterday, word went out that fugitive slaves might be passing through the county. Q and my father have been trying to stop a network that's been helping slaves escape. A group of us went out riding to find them. About one in the morning, we got the message that someone was spotted near the Nechayev land. We all headed out that way with dogs and we split up. About an hour before sunrise, I found Miss Ro hiding with a young Negro girl near the woods."

"What about Wesley?" Beverly interrupted.

"He wasn't there. It was just the two of them. I took them to the front gate of her property. She told me to give you the message. I would have been here sooner, but I had to distract the other search parties. If Wesley's been arrested, he'd be held at the jail."

Jean-Luc's eyes met Will's. "Then that's where I'll go. Thank you for delivering the message—and for your discretion." Will understood the older man's stare as implying thanks for his continued discretion, which he was more than happy to give.

"I want to come with you," Will said.

Jean-Luc was taken aback. "You don't need to become involved in this."

"With all due respect, sir, I think I do. You're a foreigner and don't know the political landscape here very well. Furthermore, you've been injured and are in no shape to defend yourself if something should happen."

Jean-Luc decided not to deny it. The younger man had seen him on the stairs and apparently figured it out.

"Lastly, my father is likely to be the one presiding over this case. He doesn't bend easily. You're going to need as much help as you can get. I can't promise anything, but I'll do whatever I can." He looked into Beverly's eyes, hoping to make good on the promise he had made her months ago.

Jean-Luc sized Will up: confident, strong, a formidable ally. "All right, let's go."

"I'm coming, too."

"Beverly—" Jean-Luc began.

"Mrs. Crusher, I don't think that's a good idea," Will said authoritatively.

"I don't care what you think," Beverly answered, collecting her shawl from Guinan, who had retrieved it, along with Jean-Luc's coat, without anyone noticing. "He's my son and I'm coming with you."

Jean-Luc found himself sizing up his fiancée: confident, strong, a formidable opponent. He gave her a small smile and nodded. "All right. Guinan, please have the carriage sent round."

"It's on its way."

"Jean-Luc!" Marie's face held more than worry. "You can't! You can't do this, you can't get involved!"

"Marie, this is Wesley." Beverly tried to take her hand, but Marie backed away from her.

"Jean-Luc, do you know what they do to slave smugglers? Do you?" She was hysterical now. "They hang them! Jean-Luc, they hang them!"

Beverly turned white at the words. She had known since Will had delivered his message that that was the fate that loomed over Wesley, but she could not let herself believe that it would happen. There must be something we can do, she told herself.

"You're not well. This is the first time you've stood up in two weeks. You'll hurt yourself."

Marie was the one who had said it out loud, but Beverly shared her concern about Jean-Luc's health.

Understanding that Marie feared the death of another family member, Jean-Luc took her hands in his. "Marie, I'm not going to be arrested. I'm not going to be hung. I'm simply going to negotiate for Wesley's release and, failing that, to secure him legal counsel to represent him. I'm going to make sure that he is in good condition and will be safe as the legal process unfolds."

He spoke so calmly, so reassuringly, that Marie could hardly object. Her brother-in-law made it sound as though he were going in to town on the most routine of errands, something he had done hundreds of times before. Surely, there was nothing dangerous in that.

Beverly was torn over frantic worry for her son and concern for Jean-Luc's health. "Jean-Luc, you have to be careful and you have to take it easy. You'll tell me if you're in pain, won't you?"

"Of course, and since you'll be with me, you can monitor my health for yourself." Jean-Luc smiled at her, thrilled that she had such feelings for him. He also smiled to re-assure her that he would be able to help Wesley—something he was not at all sure of himself—and to conceal the lie he was telling. Jean-Luc had no intention of worrying Beverly, or Marie, any more than they already were about his physical condition. He would simply have to be strong enough to do what he would need to do today.


	27. Chapter 27

Beverly had insisted on driving the carriage. As they headed toward town, Will, Jean-Luc and Beverly heard occasional gun shots, which was not unusual. However, the closer they got to the town, the more gun fire they heard, shots that were rapid and on all sides of them. Jean-Luc called to Will, riding ahead of the carriage, to stop.

"What's going on? Why are so many people firing their guns?" He asked.

Will had an idea, but he did not want to say it out loud. "It'll be clear soon enough." He started up again.

Main Street was not crowded with shoppers and travelers, as it should have been this time of the morning. They pulled up to the jail but it was apparent that it was empty. Will dismounted and went inside, but found no jailor or prisoner.

"Oh, no!" Beverly feared the worst.

They heard a commotion that sounded a few streets away—cheers, gunshots, a bell and a whistle.

"The train station!" Will recognized the noise and led the way.

They arrived just as the train was leaving. A band began playing Dixie. Half of the large crowd gathered there began to disperse, while the other half began to sing. Confederate flags and red, white and blue bunting hung around the eaves of the station.

Beverly walked ahead of Jean-Luc and Will and went right up to Kyle Riker.

"Where is my son?" She demanded.

Kyle smiled. "Mrs. Crusher! So good to see you on this historic morning!"

"Where is my son?"

"Now, now, there's no need to worry."

He tried to take Beverly's hand but she pulled away and kept her fists clenched tightly. Jean-Luc and Will caught up and stood behind her. Kyle eyed them suspiciously. When he spoke, he used his orator's voice to let bystanders hear of his great benevolence.

"As I was saying, Mrs. Crusher, you needn't worry about your son. I showed him mercy today, on this momentous occasion in the history of the Confederate States of America. I freed him from jail to allow him to serve his country as a soldier in our Confederate army."

Cheers and applause from onlookers greeted the announcement.

"Where is he?" Beverly insisted.

"Why, madam," Sheriff Q said with a bow, "all the young men going off to fight the Yanks were in that train that just left! That's why we're celebrating." He tossed his hat in the air with a "hee haw" and wandered off into the crowd to celebrate.

The last time she had seen her husband, Jack Crusher, he had been heading off to fight a war. The memory stabbed Beverly unexpectedly, wounding her all over again. She directed her fury at the pompous man in front of her. "You had no right to send my son off to fight! He must be brought back here on the next train."

Kyle Riker looked at her in astonishment. "Madam, I showed your son mercy! Instead of swinging from a tree, he has a chance to honor himself in service to the Confederacy. Don't you understand? I saved his life!" His face now showed anger that his good deed had not been appreciated.

"You endangered his life!"

Jean-Luc and Will moved between Beverly and Kyle, the former putting his hands on Beverly's shoulders to subtly restrain her and the latter shaking his father's hand with a broad smile.

"Well done, father," Will said. "You've aided the cause while showing the Lord's mercy to a felonious young man. With God's help, he will see the error of his ways as he serves his country."

Kyle soaked up the compliment. "Well said, son, well said." He updated Will on the events of the last several hours, as Will saw Jean-Luc and Beverly backing away, out of the corner of his eye.

Minutes later, Will caught up to an unsteady Jean-Luc, leading an unsteady Beverly to a bench under a tree across from the station. "The Yankees fired on our men at Fort Sumter. It's war," Will told them. "The train took the recruits to basic training, in South Carolina. Apparently, every able-bodied man is clamoring to join the new Confederate army. There'll be another train of volunteers leaving at 4:30 this afternoon."

Jean-Luc nodded. "I'm going to be on it."

"What?"

"Jean-Luc!"

The two men sat Beverly down on the bench and Jean-Luc carefully joined her. He took her hands. She looked at him wide-eyed with fear.

"I'm going to join the local regiment so that I can keep an eye on Wesley." He spoke with the same calm, firm voice he had used to placate Marie at the house. "I'll keep him out of harm's way until I can get him out of the army altogether."

Will stood before the bench. This is madness, he thought.

Beverly shook her head. "No, it's too dangerous."

"It won't be dangerous yet," Jean-Luc assured her. "There will be some type of basic training and drilling for the troops, to teach them how to be soldiers, before they're sent anywhere."

"You think you can get him out of the army before you're sent to fight?"

As he took in the worry in her eyes, Jean-Luc felt his heart aching. She gripped his hands tighter. He could not lie to her, but he could not tell her of the truth he thought he saw coming. "I'm not sure. I will do everything I can to get Wesley to safety, even if it means riding into battle with him when the time comes."

Beverly felt a tightness in her chest as breathing suddenly became difficult. She pulled a hand away from his and placed it on his cheek. "Jean-Luc, I can't ask you to do this for me."

He took her hand in his and kissed her palm. "You don't need to ask me, _ma chérie_ _._ I've decided to go and I have absolutely no reservations about doing this for Wesley. My only regret is leaving you."

Having discreetly turned to face the dispersing crowd minutes ago, Will began to drift away from the bench.

"Mr. Riker!"

Will stopped and turned back when he heard his name.

"I presume that you will be pressed into service as well. If you are planning to join the cause, I would be honored to have you serve with me."

Will made a rapid decision, his second of the day. "I will be forced to serve and I would be honored to serve with you."

"Good." Jean-Luc nodded. "Then let's take this time to get our affairs in order. I need to see my lawyer and then I have a wedding to attend." He smiled at Beverly and squeezed the hand he still held.

"A wedding?" Will asked, completely befuddled as to what the married Captain Picard was suggesting to Will's friend. He felt protective. "Beverly?"

She turned to Will with a blissful smile that contrasted greatly with her usual smirk when she found something amusing.

"It's all right, Will," she said. "I'm going to marry the man I love today."

"Uh . . . ."

"Will, we'll have plenty of time to talk on the train. I suggest you get your own affairs in order in the meantime."

With a nod, Will jogged back to his horse. Now that he thought of it, he had a very urgent affair to put in order.

* * *

From the train station, Q watched his two neighbors and the Crusher woman. What in the world was going on, he wondered. Picard broke Mrs. Crusher's heart, then married Miss Ro, yet somehow got Mrs. Crusher to tend to him when he fell ill, and now was holding her hand—wait, now kissing her hand intimately in public.

Q continued staring as Will headed off. A few minutes later, after another kiss to her hand, Jean-Luc stood and started walking toward . . . him. Q swiftly concluded that the mysterious Frenchman was coming to slap his face for his earlier behavior with his wife. Although, given how he had just witnessed the man acting with Mrs. Crusher . . . .

"Q, just the man I was looking for," Jean-Luc said.

"Oh?"

"Yes, I plan to enlist and leave town on the 4:30 train. I trust you could still use me in your regiment?"

For perhaps the first time in his life, Q was rendered momentarily speechless. His mouth open, he gawked at Jean-Luc until he finally found the words to say, "Why, yes, I could, _mon capitaine,_ but, I have to say, I'm surprised to hear—"

"Why? I've always told Kyle Riker and you that I would defend my beliefs and my property. Here's the opportunity we've all been waiting for. The decision, of course, is yours, Q, but I hope you can see your way to granting me a commission. I've had decades of command and military experience. I place myself at your disposal."

Jean-Luc bowed slightly, then walked away, careful to maintain a natural gait despite his pain. He knew how important it was to show Q not only that he was fit for duty, but that he had certainly not been shot two weeks ago.

Eying Jean-Luc's back suspiciously as he walked away, Q felt an elbow in his side. He looked down to see his wife smirking beneath her parasol.

"What do you want?" He asked her, making no effort to conceal his foul mood.

"My $100, please. In gold." Vash's smirk widened.

Continuing to watch Jean-Luc, Q raised then lowered his brow. "I'll grant you that I have lost the bet, but I don't think I lost to you. And I'll thank you not to say anything to Mrs. Nechayev or Kyle Riker."

* * *

"J.P.!" Jean-Luc found the attorney busily moving about his office issuing orders to his wife, who was also his secretary.

"Jean-Luc, this is not a good time. I have a lot of men settling their affairs before they leave for the war."

"That's why I've come." Without waiting to be invited, Jean-Luc sat in the chair opposite J.P.'s imposing oak desk. "I'm going as well, on the afternoon train today, and I need to address some things with you."

J.P. stopped, thunderstruck. "Are you crazy? A man your age? With your wealth?"

Jean-Luc nodded. "I may very well be crazy, but I am going."

"Will you excuse us, dear?" J.P. ushered his wife out of the room, closed the door and sat behind his desk. "Jean-Luc, I don't understand. I know your sympathies do not lie with the Confederate cause. I assume you don't have a death wish. Are you just a military man deep down, burning to join any fight you can?"

Jean-Luc considered that he should probably have answered yes and let his attorney and, he would like to think, friend, have the wrong impression of him. But he could not. "It's rather complicated. A young man that I care about, Wesley Crusher, has gone off to fight and I'm enlisting myself so that I can keep an eye on him and keep him safe.

"Which brings me to the state of my affairs. You see, I am going to marry Wesley's mother, Beverly Crusher, this afternoon."

J.P.'s eyebrows flew up at that announcement. "But you're already married!"

Jean-Luc smiled. "No, actually, I'm not. Miss Ro and I have a relationship for business purposes and we thought it would suit our purposes to pose as a married couple. However, things have changed and," he paused to again reflect on the miracle of being with Beverly, "it's my very good fortune to be able to marry the woman I love."

J.P. considered getting out his scotch whiskey, but he knew they had very little time. "Well, this is the second-most startling conversation I've had with you, Jean-Luc. You never cease to amaze me."

"What I need to ensure," Jean-Luc continued, "is that, if something should happen to me, Beverly will inherit my wealth."

J.P. nodded. "That's very easy, all you have to do is marry her and she will become your heir, in the absence of any legal documents to the contrary."

"I would also like to set aside some funds from my estate for Marie and for Wesley." He paused. "And a sum for Guinan, in appreciation of her years of service."

By this point, J.P. was not surprised. He merely made notes of his client's requests then handed the piece of paper with the plume to Jean-Luc. "Write down the amounts that you wish to leave everyone other than Beverly and I'll draft the document today. I'll bring it over to your house later."

"No need to bring it out to me. I could simply stop here on my way to the train station," Jean-Luc offered, as he wrote.

"Oh, it's no trouble. I'll be going out to your house anyway."

"You will?"

As confused as he was, J.P. actually chuckled. "Yes, I will. I'm the Justice of the Peace, so I'll be marrying you."

Jean-Luc stopped writing. "I will miss you, J.P. You've been a good friend and an interesting companion."

J.P. smiled as much as he ever did. "Jean-Luc, I will miss you, too. I've enjoyed your company, even though I don't agree with you about everything. You just be careful and get yourself back here so that we don't have to use any of these documents for a long time."

"More good advice from my legal counsel." He stood to leave, gripping the arms of the chair tightly to raise himself up. He took a few careful steps and had to stop for a moment from the pain.

"And Jean-Luc? One more thing, I only mention because of the short amount of time you have today and . . . well, you look a little less than one hundred percent healthy." J.P. did not want to know what made his otherwise healthy client limp.

"Yes?"

"Beverly can only inherit as your wife if you consummate the marriage."

* * *

Lwaxanna Troi motioned for Homn to bring her a chair so that she could eavesdrop comfortably. Once situated in her grand main hall, next to the door to the front sitting room, she could hear everything that the room's occupants said. She prayed that it would be good news.

Deanna was thrilled to see Will, but she tried not to let on. She enjoyed seeing him nervous—a very rare condition for a man so comfortable with others, so charming around women. He sat across from her, leaning forward, with elbows on his knees and hat in his hand, being turned around like a spinning top by its owner.

"I'm sure you heard that war was declared," he began.

Deanna scoffed. "Every gun in the county announced it. Plus there have been riders on the main road hooting and hollering all morning."

"The first train of recruits already departed."

"Really? Do we know anyone who was on it?" This was news. Her mother would definitely be interested in knowing this and, since it likely concerned men that she knew, Deanna was curious as well.

"No, we got there too late. The train had already left."

"We?"

"I rode into town with Captain Picard."

"Oh?" More curiosity.

Will saw his opening. "In fact, that's why I came here. I'll be joining Captain Picard as an officer in our county regiment. Our train leaves later today, at 4:30."

"Oh."

Will thought he detected a slight sadness in Deanna's voice. Would she miss him? Would she worry about him? It was now or never . . . .

"Deanna, before I leave, I came to say something to you that I should have said a long time ago: will you marry me?"

From her perch in the hall, Lwaxanna covered her mouth with both hands to prevent any squeals from escaping.

Deanna smiled and looked down at her hands, as though admiring her fingers. "Well, you got here rather late this morning."

"Late?"

"Mm-hm. I've already had two other proposals."

Will froze. "Two?" It was all he could think of to say.

"Mm-hm." Deanna lightly brushed her fingernails, with which she seemed to be fascinated. "From Reg Barclay and Mr. Ral, the businessman."

Will sat back in his chair to consider his odds. Then a thought occurred to him.

"But you still agreed to see me?"

"Yes." Deanna blushed.

"You're not married yet?"

"No."

He got up and went to her. Down on one knee, Will took Deanna's hands and looked into her dark eyes.

"Deanna, we both know that we made a mistake years ago when we ended our relationship. I never stopped loving you and . . . somehow, I know you love me, too. I was a fool not to come back to you sooner and I hope that you forgive me. Will you marry me?"

All of a sudden, Deanna's coy act fell apart. She felt her heart pounding, felt the effects of his soft voice, his strong hand holding hers, his eyes bluer than the sky, his masculine scent. Overcome by the sensations of him, she finally understood what Beverly had said about a man's presence causing a woman's body to react, as she felt her body doing. She did love him and she wanted to be with him for the rest of her life.

"Yes, I will marry you."

"Oh, yes!"

The shout came from the hall and made Deanna and Will, who were about to kiss, look up. They saw Lwaxanna jump up and down in a very undignified manner. As Homn rushed in to assist her in whatever way she might need assistance, Deanna and Will burst into laughter.


	28. Chapter 28

This chapter is rated 'M.' Please review, as this is the first time I've written anything like this and I'm more than a little nervous putting it out there.

I have to acknowledge another writer, hotforteacher, whose excellent, _very_ different story "Dominate Me" truly was an inspiration, although you can't tell it from my 19th century characters. I hope you enjoy!

~ Liz

* * *

The weddings were hurried affairs. Lwaxanna expertly dressed and primped her daughter, who wore Lwaxanna's own wedding gown. Will raced home for his Sunday church suit. Jean-Luc wore the dapper tails he had brought from France, which he had worn the night that he had first met Beverly. As he requested, Beverly wore her blue gown with the ruffle she had sewn herself. Marie, still stunned but thrilled for her friend, and Guinan helped her get ready and Marie made sure that the ruffle, no longer off the shoulder, was discreetly placed so as not to offend.

J.P. began at the Picard house, moved on to the Troi plantation and departed quickly, off to wed more impetuous souls.

The small gathering at Beverly and Jean-Luc's wedding drank a toast and ate a delicious, if brief, meal prepared under Guinan's supervision. Not fully recovered from the rapid-fire events of the morning, Marie and Dalen sat down on the verandah to talk and relax. Guinan took Dalen's handkerchief, soggy from his tears, to dry on the line. Beverly and Jean-Luc retired upstairs.

* * *

Alone with him in the bedroom, Beverly knew what she had to say. "Jean-Luc, as your doctor, I can't allow you to do something that could re-open your wound. Or sap your energy. You have a long journey ahead of you today and you're not completely recovered." Due to the angle of the sun on this part of the house and the shutters on the windows, shadows fell in the room so that the light was jagged and dim, just enough for them to see each other.

Jean-Luc nodded, as though understanding. "Yes, I agree, this is most serious." He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. When he turned back toward his wife, he was smiling. He went to her and put his arms around her. "Fortunately, I have an idea of how we can make love with minimal risk to my injuries."

The words stopped Beverly's heart. His embrace was both comforting and alarming at the same time. She wanted to be with him, but she was terrified at the thought of such intimacy—which she had only ever shared with one man—after so long a time.

Jean-Luc kissed her softly. "Don't be afraid," he whispered in her ear. "I won't hurt you."

He moved away slightly to look in her eyes. "Do you trust me?" He asked her.

His hands on her, his beautiful face so close to hers, soothed her. "Yes," she breathed.

So aroused that he did not feel the pain in his side, Jean-Luc led Beverly to the chair on which he had just hung his jacket. He took off his tie, shirt and undershirt, unbuttoned his pants, then sat down.

Beverly stood in front of him, confused.

"Leave your dress on, but take off all your undergarments."

Intrigued, Beverly turned her back. Keeping her dress on would allow her some modesty, which comforted her. She stepped out of her dainty shoes and her petticoat, then pulled down her bloomers. She turned to face him, in order to unzip the back of her dress and undo her corset. She was surprised to see him watching her eagerly, his desire burning on his face and in the bulge she saw in his underwear, peeking out of his opened black pants. Nothing in her life had prepared her for such a moment. None of her previous lovemaking had been anywhere near as seductive as this.

Her fear gave way to her own pounding desire. After much wrangling, during which Jean-Luc breathed heavily, keeping his eyes on her dress as it undulated, Beverly dropped her corset to the floor. She zipped up the back of her dress most of the way.

"Come here."

Unsure what Jean-Luc had in mind but dying to find out, Beverly walked shakily up to him. He took her hand and pulled her closer until she reached his knees. He smiled. "I can't bend down to pick up your skirt. Can you grab the front of it for me?"

Now that he was venturing so close to her most private part, Beverly began to feel nervous again, but she complied.

Jean-Luc crumpled her skirt across his lap, without looking underneath it. He put his hands on her waist, pulled her in until her legs straddled the chair, and sat her down on his lap.

She gasped as she felt his hardness against her.

"Are you all right?"

All she could manage was a moan.

He kissed her. His soft lips against hers warmed her to her core. She parted her lips, inviting him in, and was thrilled when his tongue slowly reached out to touch hers. They kissed and kissed, his hands weaving through her hair, his arms holding her close to him, while she slid her hands along his neck to the back of his head and held him tightly in place.

Jean-Luc could barely breathe, so aroused was he by her willingness, by holding the body that he had looked at and dreamt of and missed for so long against his own. He throbbed underneath her sensitive sex. He kissed her as though claiming her as his own. Over and over, his lips touched hers and his tongue stroked the inside of her mouth, as though the two of them would become one by this intimacy.

Beverly felt her body awaken and wanted more and more of him. Her hands caressed his head, his ears, his neck, his shoulders, and the small tufts of hair on his muscled chest as they kissed. She felt him jerk toward her as she touched sensitive spots, pushing against her womanhood, which she felt growing more and more excited and wet. She felt drops leak out of her and on to the long, thick hardness that rested at her entrance, enclosed in its cotton clothing, but beckoning to come in.

Jean-Luc could not get enough of Beverly. His hands in her hair loosened every fiery red strand. His lips traveled from her soft, warm mouth to her long neck, down to her bare porcelain shoulders, kissing and licking and teasing. Beverly twisted and moaned in response, exciting him even more as her hips moved against him. Through her dress, his hands squeezed her breasts.

"Aaaaah," Beverly moaned, her head flying backwards, her hair cascading behind her.

Through the material, Jean-Luc found her hard nipples and circled them with the palms of his hands. He pulled her in to him, to pepper her exposed neck with kisses, with his tongue, with little nips from his teeth. He dropped his head lower, to her chest, to the tops of her breasts, as his hands squeezed the bottoms. He felt her hands on the back of his head, urging him on, pushing him lower.

He tugged the ruffle of her dress and liberated her breasts.

"Yes," she breathed.

His hips bucked up as he took one nipple in his mouth and pinched the other in his fingers. Her skin was soft and creamy, her rosebuds bright red.

Beverly ground into him as he hungrily sucked her. Lost in passion, all she could think of was getting more. Jean-Luc moved his mouth to her other breast and snuck his hand under her dress. She felt him squeeze her thigh—her thigh!—so close, then move around to her buttock. When he grabbed her there, he pushed her even tighter against his cock, which begged him for her body. She clutched the short hair on the back of his head and trapped him against her breast. He rewarded her by sucking harder, which elicited another moan.

Jean-Luc breathed heavily, struggling to take in air through his mouth while his tongue circled Beverly's nipple. She cried out in ecstasy and he alternated between her perfect, firm, round breasts, which she stuck into his face as she arched her back. Such beauty, he had never beheld. He felt his desire mounting to a fever as every inch of his body craved her.

Beverly felt Jean-Luc's hand slide around her bottom, over her thigh, toward her center, where, she suddenly realized, she wanted him to go. He caressed her curls, making her jump away, only to press back into his hand.

Jean-Luc felt his heart pound as he touched her. She ground into his hand and he pressed back against her, starting to feel his way. It had been a long time since he had traveled this terrain, but he knew Beverly's body, from her shapely backside and leg, to the altar he now approached, was heavenly. His fingers separated her folds and reached in to touch her lips. He moaned at how wet and warm she felt. He slowly traced along her petals, and up to her nub at the top. Beverly let go of his head and grasped his shoulders tightly, breathing in gasps. His adept fingers gently took slow journeys around her flower and she jumped each time he reached the top.

Beverly never knew she could be made to feel like this. Jean-Luc's delicate fingers were causing her a pleasure that kept deepening. Everywhere he touched was a new joy. Soon, his fingers concentrated on one tiny spot and as he caressed her, slowly at first, then faster and faster, with more and more pressure, Beverly felt as though she was going to explode.

She gripped his shoulders, so tightly that it hurt, but he did not mind. He watched her sweaty skin blush and felt her body writhe as his fingers worked. He could barely contain himself. Realizing he was neglecting her gorgeous breasts, he took them again, with his mouth and his hand.

Suddenly, Beverly erupted, with a cry. Her hips rocked involuntarily into his hand, feeling another wave every time she touched him. She felt her passion gush out of her, all over his fingers. She was barely aware of him moving his hand from her. She hugged him close to her, her aroused nipples sensitive against his chest. She felt him nuzzling her hair, finding her ear, kissing her, nibbling, and whispering.

"Oh, God, oh, God," she repeated as she rode her ecstasy. Finally, she calmed in his arms and caught her breath.

"I need your help."

She felt his hand at her entrance, but this time it was not empty. He slid his hand around and nudged himself against her, aching to be inside.

Jean-Luc surprised himself with a gasp. To feel Beverly's body against his manhood, to feel her moist wet lips on him, he jerked involuntarily and, for a second, worried he might die if he could not feel more. He wanted to carry her to the bed, throw her down and plunge inside her.

Without thinking, both his hands gripped her bottom and lifted her up. She apparently understood the help he asked for, as she stood and positioned herself directly above his erection. He looked into her eyes and saw a wildness he had never seen there before. The lips of her mouth were parted and her bare breasts heaved. Slowly, she lowered herself and he felt her warmth squeezing him, inch by inch, as she sat back down on him, until he was completely inside.

"Aaaannh." He nearly burst just from being inside her.

They sat still for a moment, holding one another, feeling their incredible, long-awaited union in every part of their bodies. From their joining, where she sheathed his pulsating thickness, spreading out in electric ripples of desire over her flower, through their legs, making her muscles grip him tighter, which heightened his pleasure. Beverly felt Jean-Luc's arms clutching her back as hers, wrapped around his shoulders, held him prisoner. There was no pain, as she had feared; instead, a rapture that pierced her.

"Mmmmh," Jean-Luc moaned, with a thrust upward into her.

Beverly gasped at feeling him move within her and anticipated more. When none came, she realized that the movement would pull at Jean-Luc's stitches. There was only one thing she could do. _What kind of women had Jean-Luc been with?_ She wondered. _Where had he learned how to do all these things?_ Sliding her arms so that her hands sat on top of his shoulders, she stared into his eager, entreating eyes in his upturned face. She lifted herself up slowly, then dropped back down. She felt Jean-Luc, thick and long, inside her, tingling her insides. The movement as she slid back and forth over him felt so good—him, dry and hard, massaging her, wet and soft. She found her rhythm and she rode up and down him, slowly, then faster and faster.

At first, Jean-Luc tried to tease her breast with his tongue, but as she moved, he pulled his head back, struggling for air. "Unh, . . . unh, . . . unh," he moaned as she took him in over and over, into the hot center of her body that gripped every inch of him, pulling him into a pleasure that grew as he plunged into her more and more deeply. He wanted to look at her aroused body, touch her soft skin, smell her beautiful scent of flowers and sex—forever.

Beverly stared at his perfect body, which glowed with sweat and the blush of passion. As her breasts slid up and down his chest, as he squeezed her bottom, as she felt him inside her . . . .

"Oh, God," she cried, as she felt the waves starting again. She sat on him and her hips thrust into his, beyond her control, over and over, as ecstasy rippled through her, from inside her flower, wrapped snugly around Jean-Luc, over her hips, her abdomen, to her breasts, her nipples, her lips.

With each orgasmic movement against his body, Beverly's burning muscles tightened her hold on Jean-Luc. He could not breathe as he felt his own ecstasy overtake him. All of a sudden, Jean-Luc held her still, the fingers of one hand sunk into the soft flesh of her bottom, while his other hand splayed across her slick back. He cried out as he came, his face in her neck, tangled in her damp hair, his swollen cock releasing inside her, letting out the pressure that had been building there since the first time he had seen her.

No woman had ever thrilled him like this, ever taken him to such an emotional and physical peak. His cheeks felt wet, but he had no idea if it was from his tears, her sweat or a combination of both. His arms slid up to her back and he held her tightly, pressing her close to him, never wanting her to move, never wanting to be outside her body again.

Beverly held on to Jean-Luc's shoulders, with her dry lips resting against his head. She relaxed, exhausted, and dropped her head on his shoulder. For a moment, they sat together, joined, hot and sweating, and simply breathed.

"Jean-Luc." The way she said his name threatened to renew his ardor, her voice so soft, longing. "I love you."

He held her tighter and kissed her neck. "I love you, Beverly. I love you."


	29. Chapter 29

Thank you for the wonderful reviews! Things are changing in our little world . . . . I hope you keep riding this train. ~ Liz

* * *

Jean-Luc sat down uncomfortably on the train, in pain and tired, yet deliriously happy. Beverly had given him medicine for the pain, but he dared not take another dose so soon. He closed his eyes to rest and think of Beverly, of their incredible physical encounter, that felt so much more than physical to him, but he was immediately interrupted when a smiling Will Riker sat down next to him.

"I take it congratulations are in order?" Jean-Luc asked his new traveling companion.

"They are. And for you as well?"

Jean-Luc paused. "Um, it's a long story, but yes."

Will produced two cigars from his jacket pocket and the two men chuckled as they lit them and began puffing.

"I-uh, I can't reach it, but I have a bottle of whiskey in my suitcase . . . ." As soon as Will heard where the spirits were located, he stood up and rifled through Jean-Luc's luggage. He smiled as he pulled the bottle out.

"I suppose we'll have to make do without any glasses," Will said.

"We shall have to make do without a great many things," Jean-Luc added. "We may as well start now."

The whiskey tasted good and helped ease Jean-Luc's pain. In no time at all, the two new husbands were talking comfortably. Each had a long story to share about the twists and turns on their journeys to the altar. Will needed more than a few swigs from the bottle to comprehend that his travelling companion was not married to Miss Ro, but was most definitely married to Beverly Crusher.

Their good time, unfortunately, was short-lived. Just as Will had moved on to a story about hunting a wild hog with Reg and Wyatt, the door to their compartment opened and Q walked in. Unsmiling, he took the seat across from them.

Not the least bit intimidated, and knowing he had to project bravado to keep his role in helping people to freedom concealed, Jean-Luc genially handed him the whiskey bottle. "Join us."

"I believe I will," Q said. He grabbed the bottle took a long swig, long enough for Jean-Luc and Will to exchange glances. "Not bad." Q pronounced, handing the bottle back.

"I guess you're not planning on getting up and trying to walk any time soon," Will commented.

"I can hold my liquor, Riker. Don't worry." Q's face was deadly serious. "I came to speak to you, Picard."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I want to make sure that you have a clear understanding of your role in my regiment."

"And that is?"

"You are being given the rank of captain." Q snorted. "As a major, I am your immediate superior. I would imagine it's very different commanding troops in an army regiment that is part of a battalion and a division. Different from being captain of your own vessel thousands of miles away from the chain of command."

Jean-Luc maintained eye contact. "Even at sea, the chain of command is always respected."

"Good. I'm glad to hear you say that. Because in the Hart County Regiment, _I_ am the chain of command that must be respected."

Jean-Luc knew he was being baited. Q's assertion of rank and pestering demeanor invited, even courted, disagreement. He was not going to bite. "Major, you have my word, as an officer and a gentleman, that I will respect the chain of command at all times."

"Good. I'm glad we've got that straight." Q reclined, his long legs inserting themselves between the two other men. "Now, about that unpleasantness with your wife . . . ."

"My wife?" Jean-Luc immediately thought of Beverly. _How did Q know?_ He fought to keep his poker face. With a posturer like Q it would be inadvisable to admit that he had no idea what the man was talking about. Fortunately, Q gave him no time to speak.

"Surely, you can understand that I had to be thorough in my investigation. The Crusher boy was using her wagon for his smuggling operation. Before her marriage to you, your wife was quite secretive and solitary. No one knows very much about her. Far be it for me to level accusations, but this morning, in the heat of the moment, it was very reasonable for me to question if she was involved in any way."

 _Ro, not Beverly_. Jean-Luc exhaled. From the man's nervous chatter, Jean-Luc discerned that he somehow had Q at an advantage. He knew he would have to curb his curiosity to know what had transpired between Miss Ro and him, as he would have to act as though she had already told him. He frowned at Q to put him more on edge, for he knew he would have to exploit his position, whatever it was.

Uninvolved in the silent battle before him, Will asked, "What exactly did you do to Miss—I mean, Mrs. Picard?"

Q started to say something, then stopped. "That's not important. What's important is that I regret any upset I may have caused the Picards. Now that the captain is going to be serving under me, I wanted to make certain that we clear the air and are able to go forward, as officers and gentlemen." Some of his characteristic swagger had returned as he focused his intense gaze on Jean-Luc.

Despite his lack of full knowledge of the situation, Jean-Luc sensed it was too early in the game to concede his advantage. He stared back at Q as though contemplating the tall man's fate. Tension built up in the compartment. Finally, he said, "Q, I would also like to move forward. But, in order to do so, I must impose two conditions."

"Conditions?" Q clearly was not expecting any.

"First, you will leave my wife alone and, in the future, direct any questions you may have for her to me."

"Of course," Q readily agreed.

"Second, I would like you to leave _me_ alone with respect to my command."

Q's eyes flashed.

"Naturally, you are my commanding officer and I will follow your orders. However, I would like the latitude to train and command my men as I see fit without unnecessary interference from you."

"That's an extraordinarily liberal, yet vague, condition, _captain."_

Jean-Luc nodded. "It is. However, I feel that, given my experience and the current situation, it is more than reasonable for you to at least try it out. I assure you, you will be pleased with the results that I achieve, on the training field and on the battlefield. If you are not, I will willingly re-negotiate."

He turned to Will, who, despite knowing even less about the "current situation," nodded his approval of the deal.

Q felt painted into a corner. He had underestimated Picard, but he would not do so again. "I agree, but only for now. You can be certain that I _will_ be watching and I _will_ evaluate your results, starting with the most basic marching drills. If your men are not up to par, then everything changes, Picard, and you and your men will put your boots on the way I instruct. Is that clear?"

 _Poker face,_ Jean-Luc told himself, as he inwardly smiled. "Yes, sir, quite clear." He had won a round against a powerful adversary, against whom victory would not always be guaranteed. Of that he was certain.

With another generous swig of whiskey, which practically emptied the bottle, Q stood up, said, "Gentlemen," and departed.

Will exhaled. His admiration for the man beside him had ballooned during the exchange with Q. No one in the county—not even his father—stood up to the imperious, volatile Q.

He sat back and realized how tired he was and how many surprises this day had brought. He had been awake since midnight, patrolling the countryside. He discovered that Ro Laren, a woman he had known for years and once kissed, was a slave smuggler. He learned that his newest neighbor, Jean-Luc Picard, was part of the conspiracy, not married to Ro and, later in the day, married to Beverly. Wesley Crusher was arrested, triggering Will's wish to help Beverly, another woman he had once tried to court. War was declared—which, of course, should have been the most significant thing that happened to him, but marrying and making love to Deanna overtook all the other surprises. Those pleasant thoughts, of their too-brief time together, occupied his mind as he drifted off into sleep, content with his brand new marriage and not worried about his new company and commanding officer in the newly formed army.

The train rattled on, lulling the men with its repetitive noises as it barreled down the tracks. Jean-Luc's energy finally drained, his weakened body pressed and won its case for rest. His eyes closed but his mind saw Beverly—her skin glowing as they made love; her eyes pleading with him to keep Wesley and himself safe, as they said their goodbyes; her alluring red hair spread across his pillow as she lay down to rest in his bed, at his insistence. Even his sadness at speeding away from her at the rapid rate of the modern mechanical world could not diminish his immense joy. Although he had no idea how or when, he would return to his wife as soon as possible. He rejoiced in those words, _my wife,_ and felt a flutter of excitement at the new life with Beverly that awaited him once the foolhardy conflict between the northern and southern states was over. It would not be too long, he thought, as the dreams that awaited him beckoned, before Wesley and he would ride up the driveway to of his estate, to see Beverly standing on the verandah of her new home, their home.

* * *

When Beverly awoke, she did not know where she was at first. Then she realized she was in Jean-Luc's bed, now her bed as well. He told her that he wanted her to stay in the house, with Marie, although she had no idea how to accomplish that with the entire county believing him married to someone else. He told her that everything that belonged to him now belonged to her. Her sudden change in circumstances was enough to make her head spin, and it had been doing more than its fair share of that all day.

She could hardly believe that the morning had started with illicit, sensual kissing and a surprise marriage proposal. From that wonderful moment, everything quickly turned dark as she learned of Wesley's arrest and the threat of execution. Jean-Luc's offer to enlist to protect Wesley was the worst kind of torture, forcing her to choose, in her mind, between the safety of her son and that of her fiancé. She wished there were some other solution, but the reality was that she was glad that Jean-Luc was going to find Wesley. She hoped that maybe the two of them, plus Will, could keep each other safe.

Her hastily organized wedding had been beautiful. Despite the stress of the war and impending separation, Guinan had decorated with flowers and white cloth streamers and Dalen had walked her down the aisle of the sitting room. She began to quietly cry when she saw Jean-Luc standing next to the Justice of the Peace waiting for her. He looked so proud of her, so happy. So handsome and regal. The ceremony and becoming Mrs. Jean-Luc Picard were like a dream moment and she was able to forget about Wesley's predicament for a short while.

Of course, her time with Jean-Luc after the wedding put all thoughts of Wesley—and everything else in the world, for that matter—out of her mind. Even recalling it now, under the covers of their bed, with his smell all around her, she shivered with excitement. She felt that she must surely look different in some way. Younger, happier, healthier. She felt all these things and the sensual wave was almost enough to make her forget.

Almost. For the second time in her life, the man she loved had marched off to war. This time, with her son. She knew that, just because Jack had died in a war, did not mean that Wesley or Jean-Luc would, still she could not escape the haunting feeling that death was stalking her.

END PART I


	30. Chapter 30

PART II

April 1861

There was no shortage of topics at the hastily assembled meeting of the Ladies Auxiliary Sewing Circle at the Trois' house the day after war was declared. The resolutions to sew shirts for the soldiers and knit them scarves for the cold winters they would eventually have to endure in the north were passed by acclimation.

Nella Darren, now Nella Barclay, shared the happy news of her last-minute marriage to Reg. The two had not been courting, thus their nuptials were a surprise to the women. However, that was not the most astonishing thing they heard at this historic meeting.

Lwaxanna was shocked by the news of Wesley's arrest, delivered salaciously by Vash. "But, but, Beverly Crusher? My daughter is _friends_ with her for heaven's sake."

"Well, you might want to re-evaluate that friendship," Vash said.

Lwaxanna still could not believe what she was hearing. "But, we don't know, do we, if Beverly knew what Wesley was doing? Teenage boys hide things from their mothers, goodness knows."

Alynna was practical. "Well, that's the problem, isn't it? If we ask Beverly now, of course she's going to say she didn't know."

Heads shook in astonishment and disapproval all around the circle. Nothing even remotely similar had ever occurred in their small county, among their people. It was a scandal of unfathomable magnitude, the kind that some nosy people waited their whole lives for.

"I still can't believe Kyle Riker let him go. He should have been hung," Vash spat.

"Hung? But he's just a young man," Lwaxanna fretted.

"If he's old enough to commit treason, then he's old enough to die for it."

Alynna nodded. "I agree."

Nella worked away, sewing the initials of her new husband on to his handkerchiefs. "I think Kyle Riker did a wise thing, not hanging Wesley, but not letting him go."

"I agree," Kate said, as she stitched. "Senator Riker is a wonderful man, showing such mercy."

Alynna and Vash exchanged a look out of Kate's eyesight, since she was focused on repairing a hole in one of her dresses. "The merciful Senator Riker will be on a train headed for Virginia by tomorrow morning," Alynna said, smug in her knowledge of the powerful man and the others' lack of the same.

"Oh, really?" Kate asked, interested.

"Yes. Apparently, he intends to work for the Confederate government in Richmond. We're lucky to have someone in such a high place representing us."

Lwaxanna had heard about Kyle's pilgrimage to the new center of power in the South, but she was not particularly impressed. Her family had once held real power, in Washington. Still, Kyle was her daughter's in-law now, and it could not hurt to have connections. Just as she began to smile to herself about her daughter's marriage, she caught Deanna walking across the great hall.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Deanna said as she breezed into the sun room, radiating happiness.

Lwaxanna stood up, placed her daughter's arm in hers and announced, "Everyone, please welcome my daughter, Mrs. William Riker!"

All sewing projects were momentarily forgotten as Deanna was treated to a round of applause, followed by hugs, kisses and coos.

"It's so good that the start of the war has led to other positive things happening, like Nella and Deanna tying the knot," Vash said. "So we don't have to focus on the unpleasantness of yesterday."

"Unpleasantness?" Deanna asked. She sensed that Vash was not referring to the war itself, which many right-minded folk would view as unpleasant, but this crowd would not.

Alynna recounted the story of Wesley Crusher's arrest, reprieve and enlistment. Deanna's eyes were wide by the end of it.

"No! I can't believe he was doing that. Poor Beverly!"

"You can't be serious," Vash said. "Do you really think Beverly didn't know what was going on?"

"Of course she didn't," Deanna defended. "Beverly is not a law-breaker. She would never have allowed her son do to such a thing."

Alynna smiled. "My dear, you're adorable. Wait until you have children of your own."

Kate picked up the mantle from Vash. "Well, now, we'll never have verification of what she knew and when. I don't think we have any choice in the matter. We cannot associate with an abolitionist and a thief. We must expel Beverly from the sewing circle."

Deanna was shocked as all the other women, including her mother, readily agreed. She wanted to leave, to resign from the group in protest, but she was afraid to do so, for reasons she could not quite articulate. She knew Beverly was no Yankee sympathizer, still . . . she did not feel comfortable making a stand in her support. Not yet.

* * *

 _April 26, 1861_

 _Dearest Wife,_

 _I have settled into camp life quite easily. Our accommodations are surprisingly comfortable, if spartan._ _For now, I have my own tent, but I expect that will change as recruitment continues over the next few months._ _Q has assigned me command of a company of men from our county and nearby._

 _Will Riker will make a fine officer. I can tell already that he's a natural leader and I plan to promote him to First Lieutenant. He's a quick study and I believe he may have an aptitude for military strategy._

 _Young Wesley Crusher is also in my company. I know him to be very intelligent from all the things he has done around our property, thus I intend to make Wesley my informal aide-de-camp and keep him close by. He told me an incredible tale of how he got here, however, the circumstances of Wesley's enlistment are not known to the rest of the men, most likely so as not to affect troop morale._

 _You need not worry about our safety. Thus far, there have not been any skirmishes of note with Union forces and any minor fighting has been far north of us. Our men will drill for a considerable time before we are relocated anywhere near activity. Please don't worry._

 _I hope that you are well. I think of you, mon amour, every day and I keep the ruffle you gave me close to my heart. While I would give anything to return to you, I am at least happy that we shared some very special time together before my departure. The memory of those sweet moments, of your beauty and love, sustains me._

 _Your loving husband_

Assuming that his mail was being read before it was sent, Jean-Luc adopted the practice of avoiding the use of Beverly's name or any details that might identify her. He longed to write her poetic descriptions of his thoughts about her, including his remembrances of their love making and her long hair, sleek legs and shapely bosom. But he could not risk discovery by Q.

Jean-Luc had been warmed by the thought of Beverly living in his house, sleeping in his bed, being among all his possessions. Perhaps she would recline on the sofa in his study, in the evening, reading one of his books. She could dine with Marie, so that both women would have someone with whom to share the news of the day and their interesting thoughts.

However, Beverly's first letter to him brought his fantasies back to Earth. Alluding to the complications in their romance and the work of the Underground Railroad, she communicated that she was remaining in her house and still working for Dalen.

 _May 12, 1861_

 _Dear Husband,_

 _It means more to me than I could ever tell you to know that you are looking out for the safety of your men. I can sleep at night knowing that you are watching out for all the young men, especially, from our home._

 _But you must promise to keep yourself safe always, too. We haven't had much time to talk about such things, with your rapid decision to go to war, but please know that I worry about your safety. I hope that you are in good health and recovered from the virus that afflicted you upon your return from the deep south._

 _While I miss you terribly, I take great comfort in the knowledge that you love me and I am able to love you. The thrill of you being my husband is still so new and you are always on my mind._

 _I have tried to keep busy with all my usual pursuits. When I have free time, I have been visiting Marie. I know you would be happy to hear that we are spending more time together, becoming more friendly. Perhaps, some day, I can move into the house with her, but I do not think that the time is now._

 _You'll be happy to know that, in your absence, all the work on our plantation is thriving. The wall is nearly complete and the fields and slave quarters re-configured. Mr. Soong estimates an even higher yield this summer than expected, based on how well everything is settling into place._

 _I was glad to hear that Will Riker is a promising officer. Mrs. Troi has been bragging of his marriage to her daughter, Deanna, which I'm sure you have heard of. Did you also hear that Reg Barclay and Nella Darren have married? I'm glad that you will be keeping an eye on Wesley. You know that he means a lot to me and will be missed around here. I'm afraid the rumor mill about him is churning and the locals are absolutely shocked by the news, which is spreading wide and far. To have someone so close to us arrested in such a manner. I imagine that your men will soon learn the details in their letters from home._

 _I miss you, my darling. I, too, think of the special time we shared. Your shirt, which reminds me of you, is near me. I long to hold you in my arms again. Please be careful, my love, be well, and write often._

 _All my love,_

 _Your Dear Wife_

* * *

Will Riker stood in the early morning dusk, gleaning as much as he possibly could from the command style of the man before him. Captain Jean-Luc Picard demanded strict adherence to the rules. He was impeccable in his uniform dress and ramrod straight in his posture. He was perfectly consistent in his dealings with the men. He never smiled, joked or ate with them or called them by their first names. Upon awakening, in the dark, the men did calisthenics. By dawn, they were ready to drill. They marched, loaded down with gear, to build their stamina over hills and mountains, through swamps and creeks. In the hottest part of the day, they practiced loading, shooting and cleaning their firearms, then sat through lectures devoted to various aspects of military life and tactics, as well as advice that would keep the soldiers safe and healthy on long hikes, on camp outs and, most importantly, during battle. In the twilight, they marched again. Captain Picard had a routine to keep his company busy until the stars shone down on the tents where they slept. Exhausted, they fell asleep immediately and hardly stirred until the pre-dawn reveille roused them. It was the same day after day, for over eight weeks.

And the men loved him.

Somehow, the men of his company knew that they would be safe following Picard's orders. Will felt the same way, but he could not have explained the process that had instilled such loyalty. On occasion, Will had a chance to observe some of the other outfits, many of whom had captains who exuded confidence and barked out commands, as Picard did, but the atmosphere was always different. Some leaders inspired fear, others resentment.

Some were too lax and overly familiar with their men; those units lacked the discipline and endurance needed to survive under trying conditions, in Will's view. In the other companies, some soldiers had difficulty keeping up and others exhibited an attitude of defiance. Only in Picard's company did the men move as one and speak with one voice.

Damned if Will knew how this disciplined group had been created.

His flagging attention returned to the here and now as he heard Captain Picard give the order to march. Today, they would cover eight miles, finishing well before mid-day, but they would be sweating in their regiment uniforms. The goal, Will knew, was to gradually expose the men to longer treks in hotter temperatures.

"Lt. Riker," Picard called as he mounted his horse. "I would like you to drill the men this afternoon and lead them on the march back this evening."

"Sir?" Will hurriedly climbed atop his own mount.

"You're ready. You've been watching me do it for weeks. It's time for you to take over. As far as the return march, you know the land and you've been giving me insights on the different terrains. I'll think you'll do an excellent job."

His brusqueness left no room for argument. "Yes, sir." Will answered.

Will caught up to him as the company started out on their trek.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Lieutenant."

"How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Get the men to follow your orders. To feel a loyalty to you."

Jean-Luc shrugged. "I've been doing this a long time. It feels like second nature to me. Something I just do."

The younger man's questions caused Jean-Luc to reflect. The vast majority of his life had been devoted to the military and here he was giving even more time in the service of war. He had never had anything else in his life to compete with his duty to his country and his men, but now he had. For the first time, he had left behind a wife who loved him and wanted him to return. A wife whom he missed desperately. As busy as preparing his company had kept him, in quiet moments, his thoughts always returned to Beverly.

All the years, all the ocean voyages—he had never truly understood the loss that the married men among his crew had suffered. He had never missed anyone the way they had missed their wives and children. The way he now missed Beverly. He was fortunate, however, in having Beverly's son with him. Although Wesley was currently training with the rest of the men, Jean-Luc would soon make him his aide-de-camp, to protect the boy both from the enemy and from the other men in the company, once they discovered how Wesley had joined them.

Will continued, "Well, I have to admit, I was hoping for some insights that I'd be able to incorporate into my own approach. I'm not sure how I'm going to get the men to do what I want them to do."

Jean-Luc offered a tight smile. "You'll do fine. They already respect you."

"But I don't command the way you do. I don't have that . . . I don't know. I just don't feel like I command their respect and obedience the way you do."

Jean-Luc gave what he hoped was a look of encouragement to his first lieutenant. "Will, you have your own style, based on your own personality. Yes, it's different from mine, but that's all right. I will continue to set the tone and the expectations for the company but you have to establish your own authority and rapport with the men. Don't worry. You're a natural. You'll do fine."

Will kept pace alongside the captain, riding a little higher in the saddle, scanning the men as they climbed a slight, but long incline. "That's it, O'Brien!" He called. "Shift your backpack and keep moving. You can do this!"


	31. Chapter 31

Although long-time residents of the county and quite wealthy and well-respected, the Saties largely kept to themselves. They distinguished themselves from the new money in the county and generally viewed themselves as above the petty squabbles that occupied their neighbors. They did not gossip or attend vulgar social events. Instead, they lived quietly in isolation, interacting with the nouveau riche only when necessary and with the commoners and riff raff not at all.

One of the few occasions that required the Saties to communicate with the town folk was when they needed a doctor. Because of his advanced age, the patriarch, former Judge Aaron Satie, frequently fell ill and called upon his good friend, Dr. Dalen Quaice. His eldest daughter, a highly principled, stubborn and unmarried woman named Norah managed many of the affairs of their property. Many said she reminded them of her father in his prime and more than once people commented that, had she been a man, she could have followed in his august footsteps as a an ethical lawyer and sage magistrate.

Although her sisters married and moved away, Norah's brothers, Aaron, Jr., Thomas and Henry lived in the family home. Men of honor, all three had immediately volunteered to serve the Confederacy. When it was time for the wife of the youngest brother, Henry, to have her first baby, Norah sent her twelve-year old nephew to fetch Dr. Quaice.

Dalen, Beverly and the nephew rode back to the Saties' vast estate in companionable conversation. The birth of a child always lifted Dalen's spirits, as did a visit with his old friend, the judge. To Beverly, who actually delivered the babies, childbirth was practically a sacred event. She never tired of caring for and comforting the new mothers and smoothing the babies' journeys into this world. Most importantly, Beverly had never lost a baby or a mother to the dangers of labor and delivery. She was meticulous about cleanliness and instinctual about problems that could threaten either of her patients' health. Over the years, she had acquired a sterling reputation in the county. Even some wealthy families from surrounding areas summoned her to deliver their babies, at a time when infant and maternal mortality were common, very frightening threats.

Watching the carriage advance down her driveway from her post on the verandah, Norah heard Dalen's easy laughter and saw Beverly's red hair well before they were in speaking range. Dalen pulled up to meet the stable hand who stood ready to take his horse for water.

"Norah, my dear, so good to see you and on such a happy occasion, too," Dalen climbed down and walked up the stairs to her porch with a spring in his slow steps, his characteristic wide grin beaming at her.

In contrast, Norah stood as still as a sentinel, unsmiling. "Hello, Dalen. I'm glad that you came. May I have a word with you?"

Surprised, Dalen said, "Of course, Norah. Uh . . . ." He turned awkwardly back toward Beverly, about to ascend to their level, assuming that Norah would invite her in and offer her a cool drink while the two of them spoke.

However, Norah replied coldly. "We'll only be a moment." She retreated into the house, leaving Dalen and Beverly unsure how to proceed.

Beverly saved him. "I'll just wait here. She said it would be quick."

With an apologetic look at his midwife, Dalen followed Norah through the door being held open by the butler. _What in blazes does she have to talk about that's more important than manners?_ He thought.

As soon as the butler closed the imposing front door, Norah swung around and confronted Dalen. "I won't allow that mother of a traitor in my house."

Dalen was caught completely off guard. "What? But, Beverly's the midwife. She delivers the babies."

"She's not going to deliver my niece or nephew. I won't stand for it."

"But, Norah, I haven't delivered a baby in . . . must be fifteen years or so, since Beverly's been working with me."

"You are going to deliver my sister-in-law's baby. I insist." Norah stood rock firm.

"Norah, this is foolishness. What if there's a problem? If something goes wrong, Beverly is the person you want in the room, not me."

"You're a capable physician, Dr. Quaice, aren't you?"

"Uh, well, yes . . . ." Dalen stuttered under her hostile glare, feeling as though he were on the witness stand. "I have been a medical doctor for a long time, but there are certain procedures and treatments I perform more than others. Delivering babies is not my specialty and, since we have someone who _is_ a specialist, it just makes sense—"

"So, it's not your specialty, but you _can_ deliver a baby?"

"Yes, I could, but—"

"And babies are commonly delivered by people who are not trained physicians, isn't that true?"

"Ye-es."

"That suggests to me that I am taking adequate precautions for my sister-in-law by ensuring that the person delivering her baby is a trained physician with many years of practice."

Now, Dalen knew he was on the stand. "Norah, please stand to reason. If we have someone right outside this door who is a specialist and a very skilled midwife, why wouldn't we want her to do the job? It doesn't make any sense not to have Beverly deliver the baby."

"Oh, but it does make sense. I will not associate with anyone who is disloyal to my country, my home and my way of life. Beverly Crusher is not an option and given my choices of having you or one of the slave women deliver the baby, I choose you."

"Norah, please."

Just then, a woman screamed from a distant upstairs bedroom. The last thing Dalen wanted to do was continue this argument or interrogation, whatever it was. He backed down so that he could get upstairs before he had two patients to see. "All right, Norah, but I'm going to have Beverly stay here just in case she's needed." He held up a hand to stop the protest that was in her face and the mouth she had just opened. "I'm not taking no for an answer. She doesn't have to come in the house, but Beverly's staying."

Outside, he told Beverly as tactfully as possible of Norah's objection to her.

"If you could just wait . . . maybe in the carriage? I would appreciate knowing you were close by, in case I run into any problems."

Shame burned on Beverly's face, with anger hot on its heels. She wanted to walk the dusty miles back to town, away from that wretched woman, and she felt sure that her temper would propel her most of the way at a rapid pace. Her fists clenched at her sides. But, as mad as she was, she could not bring herself to leave. Her loyalty to Dalen and her oath—although she had not formally taken the Hippocratic oath, she nevertheless had internalized it long ago—prevented her from placing the lives of the young woman and her child in danger.

"I'll be . . . ," her eyes traveled in the direction the man had led the horse and carriage, "in the stable if you need me."

Dalen squeezed her shoulder. "Thank you, Beverly. Hopefully, I won't need to call on you."

Four hours later, that was exactly what Dalen wanted to do. Wiping his handkerchief across his forehead, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, he consulted with Norah outside the bedroom door. Inside, his patient, Agatha, alternately moaned and yelled, as her stomach contracted in pain.

"I tell you, Norah, something is wrong! There's a very good chance that we will lose Agatha and the baby unless you allow me to bring Beverly in here."

"No. I've sent for the slave woman who delivers the black babies. She can assist you. How difficult can it be to pull the baby out?"

Ordinarily, Dalen was not one to discuss the medical specifics of childbirth, especially with a member of the opposite sex. "Norah, as near as I can make out, the baby's umbilical cord is wrapped around its neck. It will die if I don't move the cord or take the baby out surgically. And if I operate, there's a very high likelihood that Agatha will die!"

"I trust you, Dalen. I don't trust Beverly Crusher." Folding her arms across her chest, Norah stood as hard as a rock, her face as emotionless as stone.

"Dear God! For the sake of the two lives in that room, will you please let Beverly come in and perform the operation!"

"Absolutely not."

The stable hand had been kind enough to give Beverly water and a meal at mid-day. She had walked about some, in a wooded area on the Satie property, to pick up any useful herbs or plants she could find. Eventually, word of her presence spread among the slave population. One young man snuck around the back of the stable to ask her to lance a boil. A nervous young woman vaguely described the injury of her boyfriend, who could not come himself, and walked away with some aloe leaves. Beverly made and applied a poultice for a quiet man, whose back was criss-crossed by thin, red marks. A girl of perhaps ten had a black eye. Each patient traveled to her makeshift clinic surreptitiously, thanked her profusely, and disappeared quietly. By sunset, she was sleeping soundly in the carriage, which was parked under a shady tree.

Accompanied by one of the young teenaged slave girls who had attended him all day, and carrying his jacket, Dalen trudged over to the carriage in his blood-caked shirt and gently shook Beverly's arm. She woke instantly and regarded her tired looking mentor.

"How are they?" She asked with considerable trepidation from her lounging position.

Dalen let out a loud sigh. "They're both alive, which is a miracle. They owe their lives to you as it turns out."

"To me? I've been here doing nothing all day."

"I had to do a cesarean section."

Beverly sat bolt upright. "Oh no!"

"Remember when you told me how you made a transverse incision, instead of the usual cut right down the middle?"

"Yes."

"Luckily for me, you described it in minute detail, because that's exactly what I did. I followed your instructions, I poured alcohol on the whole area and I brought this young lady with me"—he gestured to the dark girl at his side—"to bring back some of your herbal remedies for the wound."

Beverly reached into her black medical bag, a Christmas gift from Dalen, and extracted some large dried leaves, wrapped in butcher paper. She held them out to the girl, who timidly approached her. The girl knew that Beverly was a bad person, but she did not understand why. She was happy that Dalen had referred to her as a young 'lady,' however, and she wanted to trust him and his friend with the unusual-colored hair.

"These large leaves should be rubbed on the woman's belly, right over the stitches," Beverly explained softly. She pulled out another package, with smaller leaves and stems. "This is medicine for making tea. The mother should drink this tea two times a day. You can tell the adults these instructions, can't you?"

Proud of her important role, the girl nodded eagerly as she took the packages from Beverly and, amid thanks from the white people, she ran back to the big house.

"What about the baby?" Beverly quietly asked.

Dalen watched the girl run away from them. "I don't know. The cord was wrapped pretty tightly around his neck." He shook his head. "I don't know if I was fast enough. You would've made the decision sooner and done the surgery quicker." He did not need to say more. Their thoughts immediately went to the young boy, some twenty years ago, whom Dalen had delivered after excruciating hours of struggling to keep him from strangulation, only to later discover that the loss of oxygen had caused severe brain damage in the boy.

Beverly slid over and picked up the reins. "Come on, Dalen, you look exhausted. Let's get you back home, get some dinner in you and I'll wash those clothes."

Too weary to argue, Dalen did as he was told. On the ride back, alongside his loyal assistant, he could only wonder and worry about the mentality that would rebuke as talented a practitioner as Beverly. Other patients had expressed similar sentiments to him, but never in such a dire case that clearly called for her specific skills. What did this mean, he pondered, for Beverly, for himself and for their country, the Confederate States of America.

* * *

Nowadays, they held their meetings at the big table in the Picard dining room. They still met in the evenings, after the work of the farm was done and after Marie had retired to the sitting room or her bedroom. Out of respect, they always kept their work away from her.

"I agree with you," Guinan said.

"You do?" Ro was clearly surprised.

"Yes, even though there are plenty of troops moving and men joining up, I think it's going to get more dangerous the longer we wait. We should get as many people through as we can."

Ro had anticipated opposition and when Guinan did not mount any, she was momentarily at a loss for words. Instead of a protracted argument, they could skip right to the planning stage.

Worf was typically silent as the two women hashed out the logistics of their part of the railroad. This night, however, he spoke. "I have been thinking. Perhaps now is the time to help people living here, among us, to escape."

Since everyone on the Ro and Picard estates was already free, they understood that he was talking about people living on neighboring lands. Lands owned by the likes of Q, Kyle Riker, and Alynna Nechayev. The closely knit group had long maintained a system of ferrying only people from more distant areas, to avoid bringing the full wrath of the county's titans down upon them. Now, Worf was suggesting a departure from that near-sacred rule.

"I don't know, Worf." Geordi was the first to voice the concern everyone had. "Can we risk the increased scrutiny that would happen if people around here started to disappear?"

"That is just it," Worf answered. "I do not think there will be any additional scrutiny. Q and the Rikers are gone. Mrs. Troi will likely not notice. However, we may wish to . . . avoid Mrs. Necheyev's property."

Ro absently said, "hmm," as she contemplated Worf's proposal. "We'd have to be very careful about how we spread the word. Maybe have only one contact on the other plantations who knows who we are."

"Like a coordinator?" Geordi asked.

Ro nodded. "What do you think, Guinan?"

The regal woman sat back in her chair at the head of the table. For the second time, she shocked her co-conspirators. "I think now is the time."

"We will have to track troop movements and battles," Worf said, as though he had given the matter considerable thought, "so that we can avoid the army."

The man at the other end of the table spoke for the first time. "I expect there wouldn't be any trouble until they reached northern Virginia."

Everyone looked at him, silently questioning his assuredness.

Ro asked him aloud. "Ben, why do you think that?"

Ben grimaced, still feeling a soreness in his abdomen, where he had been shot. "It just makes sense. The union armies'll be coming out of Washington and they'll be met by all the bluster the southern armies can send their way. That ought to hold them up for quite a while."

Ro countered, "Captain Picard believes that the war will not last long. The union will beat the confederacy quickly."

Nods around the table as everyone—except a motionless Guinan—agreed with her.

Ben sighed. "I don't know how quick. I heard a lot of white men talking, in all the places I been. These people are gonna fight to keep their slaves. But their capital is in Richmond, in northern Virginia. That's where the fight will be."

Worf looked at Ben, whom he had only met once before, with a new admiration. "Then we must re-route our passengers to avoid the area that will have the most fighting."

Geordi shook his head. "How do we get around Virginia? It's a huge state and, if what Ben is saying is right, then there'll be armies heading toward Richmond from all over the south."

"Unless we go west," Ro said.

"West?" Geordi asked.

"It was in the newspaper yesterday." Guinan said it before Ro could, and the younger woman found herself agreeing with Guinan for an incredible third time. Silva made it a habit to read the newspapers regularly and share current events with everyone on the expanded plantation. For the most part, those of African descent could not read, as teaching them literacy was illegal. Although the two of them could read, Guinan was too busy to keep up with the news and Ro lacked the patience for the thorough reading and analysis that Silva did.

"The northwest counties of Virginia broke away and formed their own state. They're staying with the union."

Worf processed this new information. "We could still move people due north or northwest of here."

Geordi said, "Could the conductors in that direction handle an increased number of people?"

There had been an arrest in Kentucky. One of the main stations of the railroad had been discovered. The freedmen and white collaborators who had operated it had been expeditiously tried and hung in public. No one had needed a newspaper account of the events—the story traveled by mouth faster than a printing press and actual railroad could distribute it.

"Wait a minute." Guinan stood and left the room. When she returned, she had a map of the United States, from the captain's study, with her, which she lay down on the table.

The group gathered around to examine the map. Worf pointed out the route he thought was best as Ro read out the states that would be crossed. "Okay, we could skirt around South Carolina, head through the backwoods of North Carolina and Tennessee, then southwest Virginia—it's very isolated—until we reach wherever the new state of West Virginia is."

Worf frowned at the odd shapes. He had seen rougher maps of the country before in connection with their work on the railroad, mapping out where the different lines ran. "This is Canada, correct?" He asked, pointing to a point just above what he did not know was Lake Erie.

"Yes," Ro answered. "And right below there is Ohio, where there are plenty of stations."

Guinan traced along the border of Ohio and Virginia. "Somewhere around here is the new state, which is part of the union. With the war, people should be safe once they're into union territory."

Worf straightened up. "I have been in contact with my brother Kern, in Canada."

Everyone except Ro looked at him.

"Miss Ro wrote a letter on my behalf. Kern can travel into Ohio and take people back to Canada. He can meet us if we can . . . conduct people safely to Ohio."

"Wait a minute," Guinan's agreeable demeanor was replaced by her stern face and an even sterner tone of voice. "Worf, are you suggesting that we take people all the way up into Ohio instead of relying on other stations on the railroad?"

"Yes. There is a great deal of territory to cross," he pointed at the states of the Confederacy, "before we reach this . . . West Virginia. There have been many rumors of problems and there will be troops traveling north. We cannot trust anyone else."

"There have been rumors," Ro confirmed. "Just the other day—"

"I'll go."

Ben had looked at the map, then sat back down, as that position was more comfortable for him. "I'll go and Jenny will, too. Our lives were changed by our escape and we want to help others get away."

Worf nodded at him approvingly.

Guinan was staring at Worf suspiciously. "What made you try to get a hold of your brother? You haven't tried to speak to him since he left."

Worf's eyes moved around, looking anywhere but at Guinan. "I . . . had a conversation with the captain, not long ago. He reminded me of my family. With our recent setbacks, I decided to contact Kern to see if we could work together."

It was Guinan's turn to nod her approval.

Ro emitted a half-laugh. "Guinan, you are positively shocking me today. You've always been the most cautious, conservative person when it comes to expanding our operation or helping more passengers along the railroad. Today, you've agreed with everything that anyone's suggested. What's going on?"

"A war is going on." Guinan looked each of them in the eye. "A war for all of our lives. A war that will change the landscape of our country and our very existence. The time will come when we won't be able to conduct people to freedom on our railroad. Before that happens, I'm going to do everything in my power to get as many people out of here as possible. If that means that we work with people on the other estates or send someone north to get it done, then that's what we'll do. We're all going to be doing things we never thought we would do before this war is over."

Her speech inspired, but sobered them all.

"All right," Ro said, folding up the map. "We'll get to work tomorrow finding people we can trust on the other estates and re-establishing contact with our stations farther south. Worf, we'll write another letter to Kern. Geordi—"

"I'll start thinking about ways we can travel undetected."

"Great, and Ben, you'll need to get well enough so that you can walk long distances."

"I will, Miss Ro, I will."

Ben, the newcomer, took stock of the formidable men and women before him, feeling privileged to be among them and to be joining their cause. Formerly concerned only about saving his wife and himself, Ben felt that he had found his calling—using his mind and his surefootedness to help others make the journey to freedom. As he had lain dying on the dirt floor of the tunnel, he had promised God that he would do His work if he survived. Here was his chance and he was completely at peace with his decision.


	32. Chapter 32

A short "M" chapter because nothing really goes with it, you know? I hope you enjoy. ~ Liz

* * *

Sitting at his desk in his tent, Jean-Luc finished his letter to Beverly, stuffed it into an envelope and addressed it. Setting it down, he picked up her latest letter to him, filled with news of the cotton crop, which was doing well, and the county, which . He breathed in deeply the scent of her cologne, which pleased, yet tormented him. He missed Beverly terribly. Three long months of abstinence after a taste of her were a torture to his body.

He blew out the light on his desk and found his way back to his cot from memory, bringing Beverly's letter and the ruffle from her dress with him. Despite the heat, he covered himself with his coarse blanket and opened his pants. Eyes closed, the perfumed letter resting on his face, Jean-Luc touched himself. He thought of Beverly's lovely red hair, her alabaster skin, firm breasts and began to stroke himself. He thought of her modesty and how he had watched it give way to her desire, flashing in her deep blue eyes and glowing in her flushed cheeks and neck, and his hand wrapped tightly around his manhood. Her cologne on the letter recalled the scent of her as he held her pressed against him, as she bathed him in her essence, and the pace of his hand increased. He thought of the completeness he felt, being inside her, the physical sensation and the love, and the knowledge that she was his and he hers, the warmth they shared in every sense of the word, and he felt the pressure building inside him.

Concentrating, he thought of her touch—her hands sweeping across his head, his neck, his ears, holding his head against her breasts as he greedily sucked her pink rosebuds; her arms, squeezing him and pinning him in her strong embrace, when she found herself in the throes of ecstasy; her silky tongue, flicking and teasing, then gliding along and hugging his own; her slender, long thighs and soft, fleshy buttocks as she moved up and down him; her wet, warm inner place, just for him, fitting perfectly around him, welcoming and keeping him there, tightening around him as her passion peaked and she gripped him like a vice.

Jean-Luc's release came hot and hurried and spilled all over his stomach. He panted but did not cry out, less someone passing by hear him yell her name.

* * *

After a lovely and relaxing dinner with Marie, Beverly had been pressed into service treating a young man whose leg was injured by a farm implement. By the time she was finished stitching and wrapping him up, it was dark and Marie insisted that she spend the night, rather than drive back to town. That was how Beverly found herself lying in Jean-Luc's bed, where she had not lain since the day they had made love.

In the months since then, Beverly had come to think that that experience was the first time that _she_ had truly made love to a man. Her past sexual life consisted of Jack making love to her. Her role was limited to lying on their bed in the dark, kissing Jack while he fondled her breasts, then climbed on top of her and entered her. At the time, she had certainly liked the intimacy and, provided there was enough touching beforehand, had enjoyed the act itself. Or so she had thought.

Jean-Luc had awakened feelings and physical sensations in her that she had never known existed. He touched her body like he knew it well—better than she knew it herself. The irony was not lost on her that she, who was extremely familiar with that part of the female anatomy, had not known how much pleasure it could produce. Just her reminiscences of Jean-Luc's touch stirred her deep down and she felt a moistness growing between her legs. She missed him so much.

With thoughts only of Jean-Luc and their incredible encounter, Beverly removed her undergarments and lay naked between the sheets. She felt the buds of her breasts react to the roughness of the cotton brushing over them. With the palms of her hands, she made circles over the tips. The tingling sensation radiated directly to her core, where she felt her muscles clenching. She pinched her hardened nipples between her fingers, over and over, and her arousal intensified. Imagining how he had touched her most intimate parts, she nervously reached down to her womanhood.

Just below her copper curls, her fingers parted her folds. The flesh between them was, she knew, of a very different nature. Part of the inner body, but exposed, pink and sensitive. She felt the texture as she ran her index finger along its length. She softly circled the petals, venturing closer to her center, and becoming wetter. As she twirled her finger, she closed her eyes and thought of Jean-Luc's skilled fingers. She remembered his hot body against hers, his masculine scent of musk and sweat. A sound escaped her lips. Just as he had done, she slid up to the point at the top of her flower and concentrated her ministrations there.

"Oooooh," she moaned with want, as she pressed down harder. Her finger worked faster, alternately rimming her flower and rubbing her nub. She carried the juices from her petals to that special spot and bathed herself in them, which made her feel even more pleasure.

Relying on her sensual memory, she left the loneliness of the dark bedroom and relived the sights, sounds, smells, tastes and touches of being with Jean-Luc. She pictured him, looking at her body with desire burning in his eyes, with sweat glistening on his sculpted physique. The warm, masculine taste of his mouth—the thought of their passionate kisses made her twitch. His musky scent, with some lingering soap. The feel of his strong hands holding her, squeezing her bottom, brushing across her thigh and touching her the way she was now touching herself. She thought of the sounds of pleasure he made as he took her breast into his mouth and, most of all, as she took him into her body. The way their bodies slapped together as she rode up and down his thickness.

Beverly felt her passion building. Without thinking, she mimicked Jean-Luc's techniques. First, by capturing one of her aching nipples between two fingers of her free hand and giving it little squeezes and pulls, simulating his sucking. Next, as the busy finger of her other hand dove into her depths for more of her nectar, she suddenly diverted it—and stuck it deep within her.

"Ah," she gasped, taken by surprise at the sensation.

She repeated the forbidden journey, over and over, thinking about Jean-Luc's hardness and how it had felt inside her body. She moved in and out faster and faster, pinching her nipple, thinking of Jean-Luc, until her vivid memories and her slick fingers took her to the pinnacle. Panting, she tightened around her finger then slid it out and up to her sensitive nub. As she renewed her touches there, she felt another wave of ecstasy overtake her.

As she came down from the height of her pleasure, Beverly's sexual activity began to shock her. Like all females, she had been taught that sex was something one did for one's husband and, of course, to have children. What did it mean that she had just stimulated herself? Was it a sin? She craved Jean-Luc's touch horribly—even though they had only been together one electrifying time—more than she had missed Jack while he was away with the army. Jean-Luc had awakened something within her, starting the first time he had looked into her eyes when they were introduced, but she was not sure if that was a good thing or a very bad thing. She had read in a medical book that men who . . . did such things to themselves became ill, blind or insane. Although those conditions did not seem to have any physiological connection to the part of her body she had just touched, she had to admit that she was far from an expert on this anatomy. And she certainly could not discuss it with Dalen!

Beverly groped on the bed for her nightgown and quickly donned it. Her breathing returned to normal, she felt guilt displace her pleasure. If only Jean-Luc were here. Somehow, she trusted him and what he did to her. Nothing that made her feel so complete, beautiful, loved and connected to another human being could be wrong. Despite everything she did not know, she knew that in her heart. Sighing, she plumped up a pillow and rested her head on it, eager to fall asleep and dream of her husband.


	33. Chapter 33

His face turned up to the unforgiving sun, only partially shielded by the brim of his hat, Will took a minute to think, then answered, "Ninety-five. I'd guess it was about ninety-five degrees."

He watched as Jean-Luc Picard's face set, his eyes dark with anger and his jaw firm. "That's it. I'm putting a stop to this."

Jean-Luc rode off toward the men of his company, who, per Q's instruction, were marching back and forth across a field about a mile long. They had traversed the plain four times already, in the height of the mid-day July sun, on top of the nine miles they had covered earlier that morning. In the middle of the field, Jean-Luc stopped his horse several yards ahead of the men and waited a moment for them to come closer.

"Attention, company!" His baritone voice boomed across the weary group and, to a man, they straightened up and stopped talking. "Return to camp for a meal and a short rest. Drink plenty of water. We will reconvene at 1430 hours outside camp to review and practice hand-to-hand combat techniques. Dismissed."

With audible sounds of relief, the men dispersed. Before Jean-Luc could reach Riker, who sat on his horse in the shade of the trees lining the field, he saw that Q was there. It was uncanny, he thought, how his superior officer seemed to know what he had done immediately after he had done it.

"Captain Picard!" Q barked as soon as his subordinate was within hearing range. "What is the meaning of this? I specifically ordered these men to march ten miles. I gave no order for them to stop."

Jean-Luc pulled up in front of Q. "Major, with all due respect, I was very concerned about the health and safety of my men, who have already marched and hiked for twelve miles today. Therefore, I took the unusual step of ordering them to retire for water, food and rest. I plan to resume—"

"Enough!" Q bellowed, loud enough for the last of the company departing from the trampled grass to hear, which caused Jean-Luc to grimace at the volume. "You disobeyed a direct order. You were blatantly insubordinate and you admit it."

His eyes never leaving Q's, Jean-Luc breathed in, taking a moment to arrange his thoughts into a response that would not lead to the stockade or a court-martial. "Sir, may I suggest that we instead have the men practice—"

"No, you may not suggest. You have given me sufficient cause to remove you from command, Captain."

"Major," Jean-Luc fought to restrain his ire. "You and I have an understanding that I will follow all your orders but you will not interfere with—"

Q flicked his reins and dug his heels into his horse's flanks. The animal moved toward Picard and Q circled him slowly, looking him over as if searching for a part of his uniform out of place. Despite the heat, Jean-Luc's uniform was, as always, impeccable. "You misunderstand the command structure of this army, _captain._ You serve under _my_ command and follow _my_ orders at all times. If you were laboring under a different impression, you were sadly mistaken."

Jean-Luc sat still in the saddle, evaluating the peacock display of authority before him. Whatever caprice had possessed his neighbor appeared unrelenting, at least for the moment. He quickly realized he would have to change his tack. "Yes, sir," he replied.

"I want you to bring your men back here immediately and have them start all over again. For your insubordination, they can march twelve more miles," Q sneered.

Jean-Luc's resolve evaporated as fast as the water in his canteen. "Major! I ask you to punish me and not my men for my decision to disobey your command."

He had been about to ride off, but Q turned his horse around and regarded Picard as though he had just found his enemy's Achilles heel. "Request denied," he said, supremely satisfied. He called back over his shoulder as he dug his stirrups into his horse's flanks, "And Picard, I'll know if you try any tricks, so don't even think of deviating from my instructions."

Jean-Luc and Will watched him head off in the direction of his command post.

"What was that all about?" Will asked.

"I'm not sure," Jean-Luc, the naval veteran, answered, "but, I have seen that kind of behavior in superior officers before."

"Oh?"

"Yes, Will. It appears that we've been too successful."

" _Too_ successful?"

Jean-Luc nodded. "Q needs to re-assert his authority over me because he senses that I'm a better officer than he. Our company is better disciplined with better stamina than any other company in the regiment. He can't have me show him up. He is, after all, my superior officer."

Will shook his head. Jean-Luc had spoken from prior experience with Q's type, but— "I don't understand. Doesn't every officer want to have good men under him? Shouldn't he be complimenting you? Applying your techniques to the other companies?"

Jean-Luc smiled at him. "Very good, Will. That's what a good officer would do and I'm glad that you see that. Unfortunately, Q appears to be the worst kind of officer—an insecure one."

"That sounds dangerous."

"Oh, it is." Jean-Luc still watched the trees behind which Q had disappeared. "Come on, let's start back to camp and give the men the bad news. We don't want to appear to be delaying carrying out Q's order."

* * *

Jean-Luc bookended Q's forced march with what he hoped were inspiring speeches to his men. Before their return to the field, he cajoled them to rise to the challenge, which, he assured them, had been given to them because of their reputation in the regiment. After they trudged back to camp, sunburnt, tired, dehydrated and sore, he told them how proud he was of them and how they had proven themselves men of the highest qualities. If his words did not console them, then his giving them the morning off to sleep later at least softened the sting.

Angry with Q and concerned that the major would repeat his over-assertion of authority, Jean-Luc fed and brushed his horse, then walked back to his tent intending to record the events of the difficult day in his log as a catharsis. In the trees between the area for the horses and his tent, he heard an unnatural sound. Immediately on guard, he laid his hand on his pistol and quickly turned in the direction of the noise.

A lean figure emerged from the shadows.

"Wesley!"

The youth jumped back.

"What are you doing in these woods?"

"Uh-nothing." Wesley had been on edge before, but being confronted by the captain's officer posture threatened to send him over it.

Jean-Luc had purposely set up his tent a discreet distance away from those of his company. "Why aren't you with the other men?"

"Um, no reason. I just . . . um, I was taking a walk."

"You were taking a walk? After marching for the last five hours?" The words came out before Jean-Luc realized that the young man was unusually anxious and clearly not telling the truth. He sighed. "Wes, why don't you come in to my tent and talk with me for a moment?"

"Yes, sir."

Jean-Luc thought that Wesley sounded disappointed and he tried to imagine why, as he led him to his tent. Inside, he indicated the lone chair at the desk and Wesley sat in it. Jean-Luc sat on his cot across from him.

"I would offer you some whiskey, but one of the advantages of growing up in a vineyard is knowing that extreme heat and alcohol do not mix well."

"It's all right, sir."

In the lantern light in the small space, Jean-Luc could see that the young man's face was crinkled with worry. Did he still fear being hung for his crime? Was the ambitious regimen he had created for the men too grueling for him? Wesley seemed to be in good enough physical shape, if a bit thin.

Although the two of them had interacted often in the months that they had been training, they had never had a chance to talk privately. Now that he was devoting time to consider it, Jean-Luc realized that there was a great deal that they needed to talk over: Wesley's safety, the Underground Railroad and their part in it, Jean-Luc and Beverly's marriage—which Jean-Luc once had hastily mentioned then immediately become too embarrassed to discuss.

"I, um, I know we haven't had much of a chance to talk since we arrived here," Jean-Luc began. "And, of course, your enlistment was forced. I hope I have conveyed to you that you are not in danger."

"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir."

The boy was a jumble of nerves. Jean-Luc had to calm him down. "Wesley, it's not like you to be so jittery. What is bothering you?"

Wesley lifted his head but looked away from the imposing man in front of him. "It's . . . difficult, sir."

Jean-Luc hoped his closed-mouth smile reassured the young man. "Wesley, you've already wended your way through forests for hours to avoid detection. You've already been shot at. You've already been captured. And don't think that I've forgotten that you were there for me in my delirium and you saved my life. You already possess many fine qualities that will make you an outstanding soldier."

Wesley slid his palms up and down his long thighs. "It's not that. I mean, thank you for saying all those things, but that's not the difficult part. I'm not afraid of being a soldier."

"What is it then?"

Wesley sensed there was an unwritten code that he was about to breach. According to that code, confiding in his commanding officer was the worst possible thing he could do and would only make his life harder. Captain Picard was already the toughest captain in the regiment. What would his life be like if Wesley told him the truth?

Sitting back on his cot, Jean-Luc drew himself a rough outline of what was going on He had thought it odd that there had been no repercussions once word of Wesley's crime had gotten out. Apparently, either the men had been exceptionally circumspect in their mistreatment of Wesley or he had not been watching for it as carefully as he had thought.

"I see." Jean-Luc nodded. He caught Wesley's eyes as the younger man looked at him in surprise. "Wesley, there are some who will always dislike or distrust you because of the circumstances of your joining this army. You will have an uphill road, but I do think that you will gain the respect and trust of most of the men in the company."

Wesley could not imagine any future more preposterous. "How?"

"First, by showing them respect and trust."

Wesley scowled. The men who harassed him were ignorant bullies—

"Yes, Mr. Crusher, that is important and non-negotiable. In the day-to-day discussions and tasks, you must respect their opinions and who they are. In time, you must come to trust them as well."

"But these people are so—"

"Don't interrupt me."

"Yes, sir."

"The second, and most important, thing that you must do is to prove to them that you will be an asset in battle. That's not something you can do right now, of course. You'll have to wait for the right opportunity to present itself. I could certainly try to create the opportunity for you however if the men were to sense that that was what I was doing, it would be disastrous for you."

You're telling me, Wesley groaned inwardly. He did not dare say it out loud after being admonished for speaking out of turn. Only after the captain sat back and remained silent did Wesley venture to speak again. "Thank you for the advice, sir. But, um, with all due respect, how am I going to find an opportunity like that? Do I have to wait until we're in a real battle?"

The captain almost smiled at him. "No, I don't think you'll have to wait that long. Your training will present many chances to prove yourself."

Wesley just stared back at the man, looking completely puzzled.

"Just be yourself and do the things you would normally do with the company. I'm sure your personality and intelligence, and trustworthiness will surface in the natural course of things.

Wesley appreciated the captain trying to help him feel better, and had been optimistic when the captain seemed to understand his predicament. Honestly, however, he did not see the captain's vague, seemingly unattainable goals as things he could go back to the main camp and start working on. He was used to solving problems, as long as those problems involved things he could put his hands on, like tools, or things he could measure and cut, like boards.

Although he would not have thought it possible, the next words the captain spoke made him feel even worse.

"Mr. Cru—Wesley, I had been meaning to talk to you about your mother and me." Captain Picard, who only a minute earlier had been so sure of himself and full of life lessons, now appeared to have taken on the nervous mannerism of the young man to whom he addressed himself. He clapped his hands together, then bounced them up and down a few times.

For his part, Wesley could not think of anything that he wanted to hear that began with the phrase the captain had just uttered.

"As I, uh, told you, we did get married."

Beyond his control, Wesley's eyes opened wide at the astonishing sight before him. The lamp on the table was fairly small, but it cast enough light for him to see that Captain Picard was actually _blushing!_

"However, our relationship is not public knowledge. Everyone in the county believes that I am married to Miss Ro and, for the time being, I would like to keep it that way."

"Why? I mean, why, sir?"

"To keep your mother distanced from Miss Ro's and my business." Jean-Luc glared at Wesley to make sure that the youth understood the business to which he referred.

"Okay."

Jean-Luc swallowed and tried to regain his composure. Unsure how to best express his feelings, he opted to speak, as nearly as he could, from his heart. When he spoke, his voice was much quieter than the captain voice Wesley and all the men had been hearing. "Wesley, I want you to know that I will take care of your mother. I . . . I love her very much. I will not let her come to any harm. I've already made provisions for her in the event that something were to happen to me. For her and you."

Letting the captain's words sink into his mind, Wesley realized that he had wanted to hear the older man make these promises, to keep his mother safe and to love and care for her. During the months of their estrangement, he had of course been aware of the emotional toll on both of them, but he had never really thought about Captain Picard's wealth. Now that they were married, Wesley realized, his mother would not want for any material need. She would always have plenty of good food. She could buy cloth for new dresses. Maybe she could travel to Atlanta, or farther, to see concerts and theatre, as she did when she was young. She could buy new books and plant a flower garden. The best part of her new lifestyle was that she could share it with someone.

Wesley abandoned his reverie to see that someone rubbing his hands together and looking about the room as if hoping to find some hidden exit through which he could escape.

"Yes, well, uh, that's all I—" Jean-Luc stammered.

"Captain?"

"Yes?"

"Sir, I . . . I'm glad that you and my mom are married. My mom . . . well, she wasn't really interested in any man after dad died. Until you came along. I know that she loves you. And I know you'll make her very happy and take good care of her."

Jean-Luc let out the breath he had not even known he was holding. "Thank you, Wesley. Your . . . your blessing means a great deal to me."

With that exchange, both men shared a sense of embarrassment equally. Jean-Luc considered opening up his bottle of whiskey despite the heat. Then, entirely out of the blue, an arrow of curiosity pierced him.

"Wesley," he sked hesitantly, "I wonder . . . what was your father like? I've heard very little about him, really, but he must have been a very important part of your and your mother's lives."

Round eyes and an o-shaped mouth answered the question. Since he could not remember anyone ever asking him before, Wesley had no ready response and had to think how to best describe the most important man in his life to the man he had come to consider the second most important.

Wesley swallowed and began. "Well, I was only five when he died. But I remember that he was always seemed happy. He was a farmer and he had a lot of friends. People told me that everyone liked my dad and that he was a hard worker." Wesley paused to remember days that seemed so far away and long ago. "He let me come with him while he was working on the farm and he showed me how to do things. He used to lift me up into his saddle with one arm and take me riding all over the county. Mom said he was showing me off. I just liked being with him.

"When I was a little older, Mom told me that he really liked being with me, too. She said dad was very honest and fair and always tried to do what was right. He could fight, but he preferred to break up fights." Wesley felt a lump in his throat. "She always said that he was devoted to us."

"He was proud to serve in the army. Dad considered it his duty. I remember seeing him in his uniform before he left. He was so excited and glad to serve his country."

Wesley's embarrassment reached new depths as he felt tears form in his eyes. He wanted so much to please Captain Picard and now that he—a soldier—was practically crying in front of him, he was sure that he appeared impermissibly soft. Only moments after the captain had talked about his bravery and advised him to demonstrate his fitness for battle, he was nearly sobbing like a girl. He was certain the captain would never again look at him in that way that he had, that way that made him feel like an equal, like a man, like what he said and did mattered.

As Wesley sat blinking away his unshed tears, Jean-Luc stood up and opened the trunk at the foot of his bed. He extracted a whiskey bottle and two shot glasses he had recently purchased from a saloon in the closest Carolina town. He cleared his throat. "Perhaps, with the cooler air after sundown, a small toast wouldn't be ill-advised."

Wesley stood as the captain poured the drinks on the desk.

"I hope," Jean-Luc spoke slowly, "that this doesn't sound presumptuous of me, having never known the man, but, based on what you've told me, and what I've seen of your character, your mettle, Wesley, I would like to think that Jack Crusher and I would have been friends if we had had the chance to meet. He certainly sounds admirable and I would like to drink a toast to his memory."

A new flood of tears threatened Wesley. The two men lifted their glasses and Jean-Luc laid a hand on Wesley's shoulder as he proclaimed, in a strong voice, "To Jack Crusher, husband, father and friend to many. Though he no longer dwells among us, he lives in our hearts forever."

They drank the shots.

Wesley set his glass down on the desk and, as he moved forward to do so, Jean-Luc's hand slipped off his uniform. "Thank you, sir. That was very . . . nice."

Jean-Luc nodded. "You'd, uh, you'd better get going. Get some sleep before reveille sounds. We'll have a full day tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Wesley said without looking at him. "Good night."

"Good night."

After Wesley departed without a backward glance at him—which was an enormous relief to him—Jean-Luc felt overwhelmed by the powerful emotions of his encounter with the young man who was now his stepson. He hoped that his words would help Wesley get along better with the men in the company. Having dove into Wesley's relationship with his deceased father, Jean-Luc now felt a responsibility to fill the shoes of the good man who had been Jack Crusher. While in the past he could have and, he now saw, he did deny that Wesley looked to him for guidance, he now could not avoid the significant role he must play in Wesley's life. Any inkling he might have had about his importance to Wesley paled in comparison to the knowledge he now felt seep into his soul.

Entirely unaccustomed to things like parental pride and concern, and confused by why his talk with Wesley had made him feel closer to Beverly, Jean-Luc allowed the few tears that had snuck into his eyes to drip down his cheeks as he extinguished the light and went to bed.


	34. Chapter 34

Dalen re-directed Deanna Riker to Beverly's haouse when she appeared at his door looking for her friend. Deanna had never known Beverly to be home during a work day. Even if they had no patients, she always found something to do between Dalen's office and his house.

Beverly's closed front door telegraphed her desire for solitude, but Deanna understood the difference between wanting a thing and needing it. If Beverly was hiding in her house in the middle of a Monday morning, then she needed company. When her first knock brought no response, Deanna, undeterred, rapped harder and longer, till her knuckles stung.

Beverly peeked through the curtains in her front room and saw her persistent friend, apparently settled in for a long wait on her doorstep. Closing the curtain, she contemplated her predicament. She had fled Dalen's house after all three of the morning's appointments had rudely made a point of refusing to speak to her. One of them had even spat on the floor in front of her and intimated that some harm would befall her if she ever travelled down his road alone.

After the spitter, she had told Dalen she wanted to take the rest of the day off and he had sympathetically sent her home. She found it difficult to imagine continuing to work with him if every day threatened to deliver a new barrage of insults or worse.

With the climate in town becoming increasingly hostile around her, Beverly felt very alone. Her only companion was Dalen and she hated to burden him with her problems. Part of her worried that Dalen could suffer consequences for employing her. Would he be shunned socially? Would wealthier people simply travel to the next town to see a doctor? He would never admit to any tribulations caused by her situation, but she would never want to put him in that position.

Beverly sighed. The knocking had not stopped. Resigned to her fate, she plastered a smile on her face and opened the door.

"Deanna! I haven't seen you in quite a while. Come in out of the sun and we'll have some lemonade."

As much as she dreaded it, a part of Beverly was cheered by Deanna's visit. She had resolved to bear the shame of Wesley's arrest—the cold looks and outright snubs from everyone—because she believed that what he had done was right. To conceal the much greater role that Jean-Luc and Miss Ro had played, not to mention her own complicity, she kept to herself. It drove a wedge between her and her neighbors, but that could not be helped. Deanna was the first person to come see her since everything had happened.

The younger woman followed Beverly inside and sat comfortably in her small living room while Beverly retrieved a pitcher of lemonade from the ice house. She sat on a plump sofa cushion, hardly used because Beverly so rarely had company. The cheery coziness of the room always made Deanna smile. Plentiful sunshine shone through the large windows and, even in the stagnant summer heat, the room seemed to have a calm, coolness. Beverly's handiwork with a needle was evident on embroidered pillows that decorated her sofa and two armchairs. A colorful afghan, knitted, Deanna knew, by Beverly's nana, graced the back of the sofa. All in all, the effect was to make a visitor feel at home and at ease.

"The heat is just terrible, isn't it?" Deanna said to make conversation, fanning herself with a small, decorated fan.

"Yes, it's turning into a very hot summer," Beverly agreed, as she poured the drinks and cut pieces of a pound cake for her guest.

The cool beverage seemed to brighten their spirits, but both women retained a nebulous air of discomfit. Never one to willingly discuss her feelings, Beverly hid behind the clouds in her eyes.

Deanna had known the burden of addressing the proverbial elephant in the room would fall to her. It did not help matters that she had a large animal of her own to bring up as well. She took a deep breath.

"Beverly, I wanted to check on you. I know that people are acting differently toward you now, with Wesley's arrest," Deanna carefully began. "How are you doing?"

Beverly felt unable to stop the sarcasm that spewed from her mouth. "Oh, I'm just fine. I can't buy anything at any of the stores in town and I can't do my job because no one will let me treat them. Dalen insists on paying me but all I'm doing is his laundry, cooking and housekeeping. He has to do _all_ the shopping for us and see _all_ the patients. I can keep his books, but I can't even sit at the receptionist desk in his office because even that offends people. So, naturally, I'm perfectly fine."

Deanna sighed. Although she had personally witnessed Beverly's ire only the one time that she had exploded at the sewing circle, the redhead's temper was famous in the county and often attributed, through some undefined hereditary reasons, to her hair color. In contrast, Deanna could usually remain calm enough in any situation to calm those around her. Her father had died when she was young—a victim of the same Indian wars that had claimed Jack Crusher—but she always assumed she had inherited her placid temperament from him, as her mother never appeared to have the trait. She summoned as much stability from her reservoir of tranquility as she could to tell her closest friend what she had to say.

"Beverly, I think people feel betrayed by Wesley and, by extension, by you, also. No one knows if you knew what he was doing." She leaned forward and put a hand on her friend's knee. "More importantly, the people around here feel powerless and they feel that they want justice. There's a feeling that Wesley escaped the hangman's noose and, as wrong as it is, they're taking their anger out on you."

Anger was an emotion Beverly could understand and it was her first reaction to Deanna's analysis. "Whatever happened to innocent before proven guilty? I thought that was one of the founding principles of this country. Oh, that's right. We're not part of that country anymore." Having expressed the first thought that had occurred to her, Beverly paused to breathe, and a second thought shot into her mind like a bullet. "Those people—their sons and brothers and husbands are serving in the county regiment. Wesley isn't safe among them!"

"But, Captain Picard is in command. He'll keep Wesley safe."

Beverly was shaking her head. "He's planning to keep him safe from the enemy. He doesn't realize that the enemy is his own soldiers. I have to write to him, to them both."

She rose and flurried to her modest writing desk in the corner of the room. "I'm sorry, Deanna, if you'll excuse me."

"No, I won't."

Beverly looked up from the stationery she was rapidly assembling. "What?"

"I came to visit you and see how you were doing. It would be very rude of you to ignore me while you wrote letters."

"Deanna, I'm sure you can understand how important it is for me to get this message to Captain Picard." To Beverly, the urgency was obvious and her tone indicated her opinion of anyone who thought otherwise.

"Of course I do. But I also know that the mail doesn't leave town until three o'clock, which leaves you plenty of time to talk and socialize and still get your letters in today's post."

"Deanna, I'm really not feeling much like talking these days."

"That's exactly why you _should_ talk. Beverly, you don't have to bear this burden alone. You have friends."

Beverly scoffed. "Not many."

Deanna smiled. "You have me."

Despite her determination to remain in a sour mood, Beverly could not help but return the smile. All her life, it seemed, she had been very different from most of the women around her. As a child, she had been more curious and eager to explore the natural world than other girls. Her teenage years had been more filled with books than boys. Friends had been few and fairly far between. She had always told herself that she did not mind her mostly solitary life, however, deep within her, a part of her longed for a close friend to confide in and share pain, and happiness, with.

"Now," Deanna said, clapping her hands, "what can you do to keep busy? I know. Why don't you expand your garden? You have such a green thumb with vegetables."

"I already did." Beverly's gloom returned easily, settling on her like dust on a front porch in summer. "Dalen bought me the seeds." She spun the plume in her hand nervously.

"The sewing circle is making extra clothes and scarves for the men in the army. Scarves for when they go into the colder states up north."

"I already sent Wesley and Jean-Luc extra shirts and socks. Jean-Luc said they won't be going into northern territory any time soon, if ever."

"You could read more. I know you like reading."

"I've read every book Dalen and I own and I'm borrowing books from Marie, but . . . ." A heavy sigh. "All day, every day?"

"You used to treat some of the slaves . . . ."

"No one trusts me to go anywhere near their slaves. They're afraid I'm going to start a revolt. Women expecting babies won't let me check on them and I haven't delivered a baby since Wesley's arrest."

"Well, I know of one baby you can deliver," Deanna said happily.

Not noticing the change in her friend's voice, Beverly replied gloomily, "Oh, whose? Is there a poor gypsy woman who's never heard of my ignominy out in the outskirts of the county, going into labor as her caravan rumbles through Georgia?"

"No."

Deanna sat patiently, waiting for Beverly to put two and two together.

It did not take long. "Deanna!" Beverly looked up to see the dark-haired woman's blushing face. "Are you sure?"

"Well, I haven't had my monthly visitor since before the wedding."

"All right, that's one sign, a big one." Beverly dropped the plume and returned to the sofa, already examining Deanna medically and noticing that her breasts looked fuller—another sign. "Have you noticed anything else?"

"I tire very easily. I usually take two naps a day, starting some time in the morning."

Beverly smiled at the remembrance of her first trimester of pregnancy, all those years ago, and how she had felt exhausted all the time. "That will pass as you get farther along. Any nausea?"

Deanna shook her head. "Only for a few weeks, then it went away."

"Good, good. Let's see, we know exactly when the baby was conceived . . . ."

Deanna laughed at that. "I guess we do."

"So, you're about three months pregnant now and your baby will be due," the physician's eyes looked skyward automatically as she calculated, "in mid-January."

"Is that a good time?"

Beverly actually laughed. "Every time is a good time to have a baby, Deanna. Every time." Thinking about childbirth and Deanna's naiveté, she recalled another conversation the two of them had had about female anatomy and a worry struck her. "Deanna," she said delicately, "do you understand how babies are born?"

The fit of laughter hit Deanna as she was trying to drink some lemonade and caused her to spray the liquid out of her mouth in a most unladylike fashion, which only caused more giggles. When those morphed into coughs, Beverly quickly stood up and slapped Deanna on the back three times, until the coughing stopped.

"Can you breathe all right?" Beverly asked seriously.

A fresh spate of chortles began bubbling up. "Of course, I can. I'm laughing, aren't I?"

Staring at her normally calm and collected friend overtaken by uncontrollable mirth, Beverly suddenly saw a resemblance to her more expressive mother. Any whimsy that thought might have engendered, however, had to yield to her medical responsibilities.

"All right. Your breathing seems to be healthy and your color is good. I'll check in on you regularly to make sure that you stay this way. You can expect to start gaining some weight and seeing a little evidence of your condition in the next month. Wait here a moment and I'll get my bag. I just want to check your heart rate."

Beverly had once seen a pregnant woman with an unexpectedly fast heartbeat that turned out to be a harbinger of poor maternal health and a stillborn child. After she retrieved her stethoscope and performed the exam, with perfectly ordinary results, she calmed down. She so wanted Deanna, who was truly a lovely woman, inside and out, to have a safe pregnancy and a healthy baby.

"I'm very happy for you, Deanna. This is just wonderful news, the best kind." Tears of joy formed in the corners of Beverly's eyes.

Deanna was thrilled to see her friend look genuinely happy, finally distracted from the cross she had been bearing since Wesley's arrest. She did not dare break the magic spell cast by her unborn baby by saying the wrong thing. "I haven't told anyone. I wanted to check with you first, you know, to make sure. You are sure, right?"

Beverly described a more thorough examination that she could conduct to be sure and, after some nervous deliberation, Deanna agreed. The women moved to Beverly's bedroom and Deanna marveled afterward at how Beverly was able to sooth her through the rather intimate, if brief, look under her dress. She supposed she would have to become used to that kind of exposure since the test was positive. That her friend would be her midwife reassured both her modesty and her concern about the baby's wellbeing.

Back downstairs, the women settled in the living room again. "You'll have to write to Will immediately and tell him," Beverly said.

Deanna glowed. "He'll be so happy. I hope he's back before the baby is born. Oh, my mother will be positively ecstatic! All of her dreams coming true in a few short months—seeing me married and pregnant."

Beverly cut them each another piece of cake. Deanna saw a shadow in her eyes. Oh no, the magic moment had passed.

"What's wrong, Beverly?"

The older woman shook her head, not wanting to spoil their excitement about Deanna's pregnancy. "It's nothing. I just—sometimes, I just miss Jean-Luc. That's all it is. We're all going through it." She poured more lemonade.

Behind the threatening rainclouds, Deanna saw a light in Beverly's eyes when she mentioned Jean-Luc's name. Deanna knew she had not heard the entire story of how the captain, married to Ro Laren only months ago, had now come to be married to Beverly, but she knew it was far from common knowledge and she knew, as she had known since her mother's barbecue nearly a year ago, that the two of them were very much in love.

"It's very difficult, marrying a man and then sending him off to war. And we did it all on the same day."

Beverly sipped her drink.

"At the sewing circles, Nella goes on and on about Reg, but to tell you the truth, I don't remember even seeing the two of them together before I found out they'd gotten married."

Beverly set down her glass and looked at her hands, twisting in her lap. Oh, she would make this difficult for me, Deanna thought.

"Beverly, is there anything you want to talk about? I know that your relationship with Captain Picard is a secret. I would never tell anyone. Believe me, I've known how the two of you felt about each other for a long time." She reached over and laid a hand on her friend's forearm, hoping she would find some comfort in the physical connection. When Beverly remained silent, Deanna tried another tack. "For heaven's sake, Beverly, you've just seen my . . . my . . . body. I would think you could trust me with whatever you're keeping inside."

Smiling at the younger woman's awkwardness in the face of modern obstetrics, Beverly looked at her friend. "Deanna," she began, "I do trust you. And I value our friendship. You're a very sweet, caring person. I'm glad that you're in my life. But, please trust me, I can't tell you."

Seeing the plea in Beverly's blue eyes, Deanna suddenly understood her secret. "Oh my God," she whispered. "It's true. You were smuggling slaves, weren't you?"

Never a liar, Beverly could not hide the truth. "Not exactly. _I_ wasn't. Deanna, are you sure you want to know this?"

This was an important decision and gave Deanna pause. She sat back in the mauve cushions of the sofa. Once she knew of the illegal activities, she could be considered a criminal herself. Deanna sensed that she would soon have a choice to make, even larger than the fruit of knowledge that now hung right before her. Everything she had ever been taught, every fiber of her civilization, instructed her to run away from the thoughts and actions that her companion sat on the verge of revealing. Yet, there was something she had to know.

"Was Will involved?"

The query placed Beverly in a difficult position. As much as she eschewed lying to a friend, neither did she want to incriminate a friend, and Will had been as kind to her as Deanna. "No, not really."

"Not really? What does that mean?"

Beverly took a deep breath and tried to figure out a way to answer without divulging Will's one law-breaking act of compassion.

She concluded that there was none. With the worried eyes of Will's young wife begging her to say that her husband was innocent, Beverly obtained Deanna's promise of secrecy, then began to tell her everything. The whole story poured out of Beverly, from Jean-Luc's initiation at the barbecue to his shooting and Wesley's arrest. Deanna sat, silent and incredulous, throughout the entire tale. At the end, Beverly saw her typically placed friend's face look more worried than she had ever seen before.

"Deanna, please don't worry. Will wasn't involved in the Underground Railroad and no one would ever tell the authorities about his small part. I'm sure of it."

Deanna shook her head and reached for her lemonade glass. After a drink, she helped herself to more cake. "This is incredible. All these people . . . who are not what they appeared to be."

"They're good-hearted people."

"Even Miss Ro?"

In the few months since Ro had confessed to Beverly and described her purely "business" relationship with Jean-Luc, the women had not seen much of each other. Although the antagonism that Beverly had felt toward Ro during her mock relationship with Jean-Luc was gone, they had both gravitated back toward doing the work that was their passions. They had not been chummy.

"Yes," Beverly nodded. "She and I are very different people, but I respect her for what she's done. She's very committed to saving people's lives and she's saved a lot of them."

"What about you?" Deanna looked as white as a ghost. "Do you believe this is the right thing to do? Helping slaves escape to freedom?"

"I've thought about this long and hard. I don't know if I could do it myself, but I do think it's morally right. Deanna, they're people. They're human beings."

Deanna rested her head on the back of the sofa. "Homn practically raised me. He's been a very faithful servant. He never complains."

Beverly thought of the tall, silent man who always hovered over the Trois. She leaned on the edge of her chair and pressed her point. "That's just it. He never complains because he never talks. He looks so sad all the time. If you _really_ thought about the people living in the slave quarters on your property . . . . They have lives—parents, babies, hopes and dreams, just like we do, except they aren't allowed to _live_ their lives. They languish in—Deanna, are you all right?"

Beverly was out of her seat and ministering to her friend, whose pallor was matched by her agitation. She felt Deanna's forehead, which felt clammy. "Deanna, let me get you some medicine to drink. In the meantime, I want you to lie down." She lifted Deanna's ankles and swung them up on to the cushions, helping her slide down and rest her head on a pillow that she slid on to the arm of the sofa.

When Beverly returned, Deanna drank the concoction that she offered her then lay back down.

"How do you feel?" Beverly gently asked.

Deanna closed her eyes. "Confused. If the slaves are people, just like we're people, then, how can we justify, well, _keeping_ them as slaves?"

Many arguments came to Beverly, but she somehow sensed that no response was needed.

"I mean," Deanna continued, "in a way, they live like people. They get married and have children, they work and play and eat. But, for their entire lives they are _owned_ by us. By us! What kind of people does this make us if we own other people?" She rested her hand on her stomach, a gesture her doctor was quick to note.

"Deanna, do you feel any pain?" Beverly sat down on the couch next to her hip and leaned forward to feel her forehead.

"No, not physical pain." Deanna's voice sounded hurt. "Just emotional pain. Oh, Beverly." She turned her face toward the sofa back. "What have we done?"

Beverly took Deanna's hand and held it in both of hers. Unpracticed at speechmaking, she wished that Jean-Luc were with her, to arrange her words into eloquent, persuasive phrases. Patting Deanna's small hand, she tried to channel his oratorical gifts. "We can't go back and change the world we were born into. All we can do is try to change the world we live in now. We don't have to be abolitionists or creep through the forests at night guiding strangers northward. We just do whatever we can to help others. I provide medical care."

Deanna kept her face to the sofa and thought about those words. She closed her hand around the bottom one of Beverly's; the physical touch helped to calm her. "I imagined my child growing up the same way I did. Playing in our big yard, sniffing the flowers in the garden, wading in the creek, learning to sew. It feels like all of that is wrong now."

Beverly shook her head slightly. "I don't know what the war will bring, but your child could still live like that. You'd just have to free the people who live and work on your property and then pay them for their services."

Deanna smiled a sad smile. "That's the craziest thing my mother would ever have heard, if she had heard you say it. If feels as though the whole world is changing."

 _It is,_ Beverly thought.

Suddenly, Deanna turned toward her. "That's what this whole war is about isn't it?"

"What?"

"It's not about states' rights or Mr. Lincoln telling us what to do. It's about slavery! We're fighting to keep our slaves. Oh my God, this is horrible." Instinctually, she pressed down on her stomach.

"Deanna," Beverly squeezed her hand, "it's important that you try to stay calm for the baby's sake. You don't want anything upsetting the baby inside your body."

"Can the baby really tell if I'm upset?"

"I believe so. Our whole bodies tense up when we feel stress. If we can feel it in our backs and our stomachs, why not in our wombs? And if the womb tenses up, then the baby would feel it."

Deanna stared at her friend. "You're a very wise doctor. You know that, right?"

"Huh! I certainly don't feel very wise these days. A doctor with no patients."

"The world is changing, though, isn't it? We're all going to have to change, too."

Beverly had known as much, but when the change had turned out to include her being unable to practice medicine, it had been too much to bear. At least, to bear alone. Sitting with Deanna, though, she realized that she was not alone. She had Jean-Luc and Wesley, Dalen and Marie, and, now, Deanna.

"Beverly, I'm very glad that we're friends. I don't know what I would do without a friend who understood things the way that I do."

"I'm confused. You didn't understand—"

"No, I didn't understand that slavery was wrong, but I do now, thanks to you. It's just one more way that I can talk to you that I can't talk to the other women." Her smile turned into sadness. "Actually, this is much more than a secret for us to share. What you said before, about how we all help out however we can? What can I do?"

Beverly smiled. "Right now, you don't do anything. You're going to have a baby and that's quite enough work for now. When the time comes, I'm sure there'll be something you can do to help out. You're a smart woman with a lot of compassion, Deanna.

"I feel so much better now that I can talk to you about all this. You have no idea how much you've helped me."

"You have no idea how much you've helped _me_."

Deanna sat up and the two women hugged. Beverly truly felt joy for their relationship and for her friend and the tiny baby growing inside her. Tugging at that joy, however, was a sadness that she would not be joining her in maternity any time soon.


	35. Chapter 35

Sorry for the delay in posting. Bit of a home front crisis, now under control. The chapters in Part II are not all mapped out yet, so the writing will take longer. I hope you can stay with and "follow" the story for updates. I will give you the small clue that Beverly and Jean-Luc will _not_ be separated for four years. But it will be a rocky road—it is war, after all—till we get to Part III. Thank you for reading and reviewing. ~ Wishing you love and peace, Liz

* * *

"Well, you're perfectly healthy, ma'am," Dalen said with his characteristic bonhomie, as he removed his stethoscope and helped his patient off the examination table. "So, why don't you tell me why you're really here, Kate?"

Taking her elbow, he led Kate Pulaski out of the examination room and into his reception area. Since Beverly had stopped working for him, he had been forced to follow his patients out of the exam room, walk around them, sit down at the desk and ask them for payment. He found collecting money distasteful. As a professional, he preferred to focus on the medical arts, and his interactions as a doctor with his patients were always limited to their health or lack thereof and he strove to be positive with them. Dalen felt that happiness and optimism, a sound mind, usually led to a sound body.

Discussions of money, in contrast, were frequently unpleasant when a patient lacked funds to pay for his or her office visit. Beverly had always handled people with a successful balance of compassion and firm payment structures, so that both his practice and his bank account were happy and growing.

Settling in behind the large maple desk and putting on his spectacles, Dalen opened his ledger. "Now, let's see."

"Here you go, Doctor." To his great relief, Kate handed him the money without him having to ask.

"Why, thank you, Kate." Dalen duly recorded the payment in the ledger and stuffed the money into the top center drawer. That unsavory business quickly concluded, he smiled up at the woman before him. "You never did tell me why you came in if you're not really ill."

"May I sit down and talk with you?"

"Of course, of course."

After the two settled in the living room, Dalen looked at Kate expectantly and she looked at him the same way. It took Dalen a moment to realize he had not offered her any beverage or food. Blasted refreshments, he thought. Another thing that Beverly always saw to.

"Kate, I must apologize. I wasn't planning on having any company and I don't have any—"

"It's quite all right, Doctor," Kate said, as soon as she understood his predicament. She needed him to be at ease with her. "I'm fine."

Dalen still felt embarrassed. Kate had an agreeable manner about her, but he never found her to be a particularly captivating conversationalist. He wondered, with some trepidation, what it was that she wanted to speak with him about.

She took her sweet time telling him. He fidgeted as Kate looked around the front room of his house, decorated to exist in two worlds, as his parlor for entertaining friends and as a place for his patients and their families to sit, in case they needed to rest or wait or talk about a diagnosis or treatment plan. As such, the room most likely failed at both purposes—too impersonal to let friends warm to it, yet too formal to put clients at ease. Kate sat, straddling both worlds, and making Dalen wish that Beverly were there to move things along.

"Dr. Quaice," Kate finally began, "I don't know if you know this about me, but I used to work as a midwife."

Dalen had lived in the county for fifty years. "Of course, I knew that. Way back before you married your late husband.

The topic could have been extremely uncomfortable, but Kate plowed forward with her characteristic no-nonsense speech. "Dr. Quaice, people don't know this about me, but I've been living on a limited income for the last 15 years and, to be blunt, that income is running out." Kate was very direct, but not one to confide in others. She omitted from her story that she had expected that a marriage to Senator Riker that never materialized would have rescued her from poverty. "I've heard that Beverly Crusher is no longer working for you, so I thought I'd see if you were looking to hire a replacement."

Kate's proposal shocked Dalen like another declaration of war. The loss of Beverly, his long-time partner, had affected him greatly. For fifteen years, he had relied on an assistant who learned quickly, anticipated his every need and excelled at surgery, scientific research and natural remedies. In many ways, they both understood that she was his equal and, if it were possible, he would have wanted her to succeed him as the county doctor. She cooked his meals, washed his clothes and kept him company.

Now, a woman he barely knew was inquiring as to whether she could take Beverly's place. It was unfathomable to Dalen.

"Well, I, uh, I'd have to think on this a little bit, Kate. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course. If it will help you decide, I'd be happy to work with you for no pay for a time to let you evaluate my skills."

Dalen scratched his head. "Okay, well, that's a good idea and I will consider it." He slid his chair back from the desk in order to stand, but before he rose, Kate spoke again.

"There's just one more thing, doctor."

"Yes?"

For the first time during their exchange, Kate appeared self-conscious. She looked down at the white gloves in her lap. "I'm going to be losing my house. The house is owned by my husband's family and they've decided to sell it, with the war going on. I'm hoping I could rent a room from you here? Or in the house next door?"

"Well, Beverly owns the house next door, so you'd have to talk to her. I don't think I have any space here that isn't used for something." Dalen did not offer details about his spare bedrooms filled with books, papers and collectibles. It was one thing to get used to a new person in one's office space. A new person in one's upstairs was quite another thing and he was definitely not prepared to consider that kind of invasion.

"Oh." Kate's disappointment was palpable. "I suppose I could ask her."

Dalen grew so uncomfortable that he stood up to end the conversation. "All right, then," he said happily, as though something had been concluded. "We'll talk again soon." He politely ushered Kate out of the house, a smile on his face, but his head dizzy with the idea of such a change. What the Sam Hill was going on with the world these days?

* * *

During the Sunday morning rest period that he believed in allowing his men, Jean-Luc carried his desk chair out of his tent and sat, under a shady tree, reading the latest newspaper accounts of a sizeable battle in northern Virginia. Will had likewise set up a chair that he had scrounged somewhere and Wesley, who had been invited by the captain to join them, leaned against the tree with his long legs sprawled out in front of him. The younger men were eager to hear news of their brothers in arms, whom they would one day join on the battlefield, and sat rapt as the captain read the detailed narrative of the fighting. When he had finished, Jean-Luc lowered the paper into his lap and looked to them as if to ask their opinions. Careful not to speak out of turn, Wesley did not pick up on the hint. Careful to impress his superior office, Will immediately did.

"Captain, maybe I mis-understood or the newspapers got it wrong. Did you say there were 35,000 union troops?"

Jean-Luc made a show of finding the column that had noted the size of the union forces but he had no need to do so. He remembered the number for the same reason Will had. "Yes," he finally pointed at the newsprint. "That is correct, 35,000. Apparently President Lincoln called for a very large number of volunteers to join the army after Fort Sumter."

"And the Confederate forces were only, what, 22,000? How did we route them so badly?"

"Indeed," Jean-Luc said, glad that his first lieutenant had picked up on the key question. "The Confederate army scored a victory at Bull Run in Manassas. Based solely on the size of the armies facing one another, at least initially, one would think we would have lost, but we did not. Why do you think that is, Mr. Crusher?"

Wesley had been puzzling over the unexpected result. Some glaring mistakes seemed to stand out to him, but he did not think he, a young infantryman with only months of military experience, could possibly be right. What did he know? "Captain . . . . I think—well, I don't really know anything about military strategy."

Jean-Luc looked at Will, to draw him into conspiracy, then back down at Wesley. "I would hope, Mr. Crusher, that I had managed to teach you at least _something_ about military strategy in the last few months."

"Oh, um, you did, sir," Wesley said quickly, turning red as he looked up to the captain. "It's just that, I don't know very much compared to the officers that were in Manassas."

Jean-Luc nodded. "And you're prefacing your remarks with that qualifier because . . . ."

"Well, it just seems to me like they made some mistakes." Wesley had been confident in his assessment until he had to share it with Captain Picard and Will.

"Such as?" The captain pressed.

Wesley glanced at Will, who smiled. "Go ahead, Wes. Tell us what you think."

Somehow, Will's friendly manner softened the edges of Captain Picard's stern demeanor. Wesley turned slightly to face the two men in their chairs. "From what you just read, it sounds like the Union army gave away its presence to our men with the skirmish a few days earlier at the ford. That was the first mistake.

"Then, flanking the Confederate forces was a good idea, but they moved too slowly and we had time to get around and meet them."

"Still," Will interrupted, "they had superior numbers. They pushed us back in a retreat."

Wesley nodded. "That was their next mistake. They stopped to re-group and gave us hours to re-assemble at the top of Henry Hill. We got reinforcements and put artillery into place. After that, we defended the hill from a pretty solid position."

Jean-Luc gazed at the young man in admiration.

Will smiled. "That's exactly what I was going to say."

Jean-Luc regarded his top lieutenant with a short chuckle. He truly enjoyed Will's sense of humor, although he would not admit to that enjoyment in front of the men. "Evidently, I've taught you both very well. Excellent analysis."

"Captain," Wesley asked, "I don't understand how the Union generals could have made those mistakes. They seem pretty basic."

"First of all," Jean-Luc answered, "hindsight is twenty-twenty. It's a very different matter to think on your feet in the midst of a battle. It's very stressful and there's a great deal happening all at once."

"Yeah, but they're generals—"

"And, second," Jean-Luc continued, "while the sheer number of men in the Union armies sounds daunting, many of them are fresh recruits, recently joined in response to Mr. Lincoln's call. The newspaper doesn't contain that minute level of detail, but I'm willing to bet that a great deal of discipline and organization were lost in the implementation of Gen. McDowell's ambitious plan."

Will nodded. "That's a lesson for us, then. Don't march into battle until we're well prepared."

"Exactly. A third factor, also not mentioned in the article but perhaps suggested, is that I don't think the Union forces properly estimated the ability of the Confederate armies. Washington is maybe thirty miles from our capital at Richmond? With over 30,000 men, they may well have thought that they'd take the railroad junction at Manassas, cripple the South's movements and move on the capital fairly easily."

He paused, took a deep breath and shook his head. "Gentlemen, I believe this battle is an indication that this conflict may last longer than either side initially thought."

Without any further discussion, each man's thoughts returned to the number of casualties, including nearly 2,000 Confederate dead alone. When it was their turn to march into battle, would they lose the same ratio of men? Would all three of them survive?

Furthermore, as their leader, Jean-Luc bore the burden of command. It was up to him to ensure that all of his men survived or that, if they died, their deaths were not in vain. He had borne this responsibility many times before, but it felt weightier this time. Partly, he knew, because Wesley's life—the life that the woman he loved was most concerned about—was in his hands. More than that charge, however, he now realized that most of these men had someone who loved them as Beverly loved him. These men would be horribly missed, their deaths mourned by a wife, by children who needed them, all of whom would be forever changed by their untimely departure from this world. Beverly and Wesley had already suffered this devastating loss once before. His decisions, as well as those of the officers above him, could create more widows and fatherless children. He would do everything he could to prevent that from happening.

Will was staring off into the Carolina countryside and Wesley had leaned back to take a nap. The late morning was advancing steamily toward afternoon and the humid air hung heavily around them. Jean-Luc loudly cleared his throat, startling them both back into attention.

"Will, let's take the next hour or so to figure out how we can train the men to take advantage of the Yankees' inexperience. What to do if the enemy's lines are disorganized and falling apart, that sort of thing. I want us to be ready to charge in and take control of their artillery or cut their forces off from other units, much as they did at Bull Run."

"Aye, sir." Will was already on his feet.

"Mr. Crusher, let the men know they will be called to muster at 1300 hours."

"Yes, sir."

Jean-Luc was damned if he was going to send his men into combat as green as those poor souls who had died in northern Virginia. His thoughts entirely on his new assignment, he tucked the newspaper under his arm, lifted his chair and walked sprightly back to his tent.

* * *

After sunset, the night air had become cooler. Relieved from the lung-crushing heat of their homeland and the buggy humidity of the riverside, the two men, who had taken turns standing watch, came together to risk speaking in quiet tones.

"It must be going on eleven o'clock."

"I would prefer to wait until later."

"The boat is ready. We don't know how long it will take. I think we should get started."

A pause as the senior man considered the proposal. "Let us wait some and see if we hear anything in the woods or on the river. If all is quiet, we can begin. Have your wife wake everyone."

Ben nodded to Worf, then quietly disappeared into the dense brush that concealed their party.

The night stillness clothed Worf like a cloak, protecting him from the dangers of the day. His eyes scanned the forest, hawk-like, on the lookout for any movement. His ears heard every slight sound of the secretive nocturnal forest creatures. Concentrating, he smelled the river, not unlike creeks he had known back home, but even sight unseen, it felt much larger and infinitely more important.

There was nothing. They had hidden, completely alone, in this wood, since sunrise. In the dimming twilight, they had seen the signal—a light that flashed three times from the opposite bank to notify them of the boat's departure. By this time, their conveyance to freedom would be awaiting, less than half a mile away, well covered by overhanging branches. Worf was excited, but cautious. They had traveled too far to be captured now.

He heard a rustling of leaves behind him and turned, on guard.

"Hoo, hoo," came the fake owl call.

Worf relaxed.

Ben spoke only after he was close enough to Worf that the men's voices could hover just above a whisper. "Everyone is awake and ready to move. They're about a hundred yards behind me. But, I thought I heard something on my way here."

"What?"

"Sounded like it came from the river."

"We will wait."

Together, the two men parted the leafy branches that had obscured their view, then stood completely still. From their vantage point, they could see down river, in the direction of the town. They waited, drawing on the reserves of patience that had kept them alive, suppressing their anger and their energy, under an unjust system of imprisonment, all their lives. They knew, without checking, that the passengers, so near their destination, would exhibit the same quiet calm.

There it was. They saw movement in the center of the great highway to freedom. A patrol boat, heading upstream, with no lights. When they came closer, the men knew they would hear the peaceful sound of the oars slowly stroking the water.

"We will have to wait for it to pass us," Worf whispered, "then wait for it to return down river to the town."

Ben shook his head as if his disbelief could make it not so. Worf was right. They could not risk going out on the water with the authorities—or, worse, vigilantes—out searching for them. It would be a long time before they could cross. Depending on how far up the patrol went and how long it took to return, their party might have to lie in wait for another day. It would be difficult, but they would all do it.

Without another word, Ben began the arduous climb back to the others. Though not far, the walk would be slow and silent, thus take him a long time. But he had plenty of time now.

Behind him, Worf stood, a silent sentinel. He watched the patrol make its sluggish way upriver, then let his gaze wander past the modest boat to the far shore of the Ohio River. On that land that he could now see, he could walk openly as a free man. He could hold his head up, spend the money that he now earned and own land for his son and himself. His work was not yet done, he knew, but someday, it would be. And he would be completely free.


	36. Chapter 36

Every now and then, Beverly and Dalen liked to stroll through town and into the countryside after nightfall. They enjoyed the cool, quiet peacefulness as they gazed at the starry sky and talked, breathing in the warm scents of summer. This humid night, both had something to tell the other that would change their insular world. For years, they had been two close companions and colleagues, but that relationship had begun to change.

They chitchatted amiably as they walked.

"I see that J.P. Hanson finally fixed his front porch," Beverly observed.

"Yes," Dalen said. "I saw some men from the Picard place out there working on it."

"Really?"

"Yes, there was that blind man. What's his name again?"

"Geordi."

"Yes, that's him. He was telling the other men how to do it. I've never seen anything like that, a blind man giving orders like that."

Beverly smiled. "Wesley has worked with Geordi. He says Geordi can see solutions in his mind even if he can't see the problem with his eyes."

"I believe that now. I do."

They found constellations and inhaled honeysuckle.

"Dalen," Beverly began, more nervous than she had been in a long time. After all, Dalen had been her friend and mentor since Jack had died. They had walked together, literally and figuratively, for years and she was sad and tremulous at the thought that their paths might now diverge.

"Yes?"

"Marie has been talking to me about moving in to the house with her. I think she might be a little lonely. And . . . well, Jean-Luc had wanted me to live there . . . ."

"Oh, thank goodness."

"Dalen?"

With a hearty laugh, Dalen took her arm and patted her hand. "Oh, my dear, I didn't mean to sound as though I was happy to get rid of you."

"Well, it sounded like—"

"It's just that . . . . There's someone interested in renting your house."

"Renting my house?"

"Yes, and working for me."

Beverly stopped. "You found someone to replace me?"

Dalen turned to her, his eyes sparkling like the stars above them. "Beverly, you know that no one could ever replace you. We'll always be close. But, you're a married woman now and you belong in your husband's house. I suppose it was foolish of me to think you could keep working with me now that you don't need the job."

Beverly shook her head, her eyes blazing. "I didn't want to stop working with you, Dalen. I love medicine. You taught me everything I know—"

"Oh, that's not true."

"—and I always wanted to be there to help you. One day, you'll be nearing retirement and—"

He chuckled. "I'm _near_ retirement, all right."

"—I know it's probably crazy of me to think that I could take over your practice, but I could certainly help your successor. I know all the families and how you do things. But, that's all changed now." Her eyes darkened as she forced herself to honestly evaluate her situation. "Dalen, if I can't be any help to you with my scarlet letter "A," for abolitionist, then I do want you to find someone else."

"Beverly," Dalen frowned at her suggestions that she was unfit. He set his hands on her shoulders. "You're the best physician I've ever seen, better than any man. I've been all over the South, I've traveled north and west. You are brilliant and you could practice medicine anywhere. But, right now, it's time for you to be a wife. Why don't you take some time for yourself for a while?"

She tried to understand what he was saying. Over the years, as she had learned more about medicine, treated patients and experimented with herbal remedies, she had built an expansive skills set and repertoire. More than the technical knowledge she had gained, however, she had come to love the practice of medicine. Healing people, curing disease, repairing injury. Beverly considered it a calling, as she knew Dalen did, and he had told her more than once that she had a natural ability for it. If that were the case, then, why would she stop?

Dalen understood. "My dear, when your husband returns, do you think you will simply continue working for me?"

"I thought—" Beverly stopped. What _had_ she thought? "I guess I thought that Jean-Luc loved me the way I am and that included . . . ." Once she had begun to express it, the scenario sounded ridiculous even to her.

Dalen nodded sympathetically. "You thought that might include traipsing around the county with an old man tending to the sick and delivering babies? At all hours of the day and night, while your husband sits at home and waits for you?"

In her fantasies, Jean-Luc and she were picnicking, traveling, attending plays and concerts, reading and, lately, making love. Beverly had never really envisioned what her day-to-day life would be like. While Jean-Luc was working on the plantation, she would have to be occupied somehow, but almost certainly that pastime would be pursued on the plantation. Sewing, gardening, planning dinner. Many women she knew napped during the heat of the afternoon—wasted time, in Beverly's opinion. She preferred to be active in the cooler mornings and then do simpler tasks, like balancing the books, dusting the examination room and the house, writing letters and sewing, indoors when the sun was high in the sky.

Dalen saw the tide turning. "And what about when a little Picard comes along? Or many of them?" His round cheeks looked ready to burst.

For her part, Beverly's cheeks were ready to blush. "I don't know about 'many,' at my age."

"Oh, pshaw. You're still young. You never know what God has in mind."

"That's certainly true," Beverly answered, thinking of Jack's early death, Wesley's brilliance and Jean-Luc's appearance in her life, ages after she had given up on ever finding love again.

Inwardly, Dalen was still unsure how well Kate and he would or would not work together. A part of him was terrified at the thought of no longer having Beverly by his side as he practiced medicine. Mostly, however, he felt happiness for her, tinged with some sadness for himself.

"Time marches on, my dear," he said as he again took her arm and began literally marching forward with her. "We must enjoy and appreciate the good times while we are having them but be ready to say goodbye and convert them into cherished memories when times change."

Beverly sighed and they walked on in silence, him enjoying her company and her mulling over his words of wisdom. Unbidden, her thoughts returned to her last days in Dalen's office, with people who hated her vowing never to return. With her concerns that wealthy patients would find another doctor, an even worse idea occurred to her: would poorer people refuse to get medical help altogether, then suffer or die without it? Beverly could never live with causing someone's pain or death, even if she was only the indirect cause and the person's own pigheadedness was the direct cause.

Perhaps, this change was for the best. Just as she was being ostracized by Dalen's patients, someone had serendipitously stepped forward to take on her work. Someone?

"Dalen," she asked, "who is it? Who's interested in working for you and renting my house?"

"Kate Pulaski." Dalen used his best cheerful voice.

Beverly was surprised. The Kate that she had known never professed any interest in working, although she was a productive seamstress. "I thought she had plans to marry Kyle Riker." Beverly said the first thing that came to her mind about the older woman.

Dalen chuckled. "Well, I suspect Senator Riker doesn't have the same plans. It seems that living off what her husband left her is no longer an option and she'd like to return to her former career as a midwife."

"Oh, I didn't realize she was a midwife."

Dalen nodded. "A long time ago. She was quite capable, from what I remember. Of course, she wasn't like you. She's not going to invent new techniques or save babies or mothers that we're on the verge of losing."

"Don't say that. Kate is smart. I'm sure you could train her."

Dalen just smiled.

"She's a nice woman, I suppose." Beverly did not even sound as though she herself was convinced of that description.

"Cherished memories, my dear Beverly. We will have cherished memories. And we will still get together socially, of course."

"Of course," Beverly said automatically. She tried to adopt Dalen's infectious optimism. The trait was one of the things she loved about him and had come to rely on over the years. His tide of positivity had swept her past more than one small, tumbling wave. As she walked on with him, she hoped it would do the same this time.

* * *

On their second trip north, Worf saw his brother again for the first time in six years. Standing side by side in a safe house in Ohio, they sized one another up, found their counterparts to be healthy and strong, then embraced.

Kern found words to speak first. "You look well, my brother. I am proud that your bravery has brought you this far."

"And you also, Kern. You are my younger brother, but you have done our family proud." Worf took note of his brother's healthy appearance, longer beard and better attire.

Kern smiled at the compliment. "Tell me, how is Alexander?" He held a special place in his heart for his nephew, whom he had rescued and brought to Worf.

"He is growing well. Alexander has his mother's intelligence."

"Ah, and his father's spirit?"

Worf was not at all sure that his son took after him in any way. The boy was pensive and curious so far in his young life, more a man of thought than of action. At times, these aspects of Alexander distressed Worf, who knew that his son would need courage, honor and strength to survive in this dangerous world.

"I am . . . working on him," he finally answered.

Kern laughed and patted him on the back. "I'm sure you are, my brother. I'm sure you are. Now, let us talk the business of the railroad."

Wrapping his arm around Worf's shoulders, Kern led him into the kitchen, where the escaped people, finally relaxed, were eating a hearty meal with Ben and Jenny and their hosts, a freed couple originally from Tennessee who never tired of cooking for brothers and sisters who, like them, had made the perilous journey from slavery to freedom.

* * *

Silva had reluctantly agreed to go with Ro, but had insisted that the younger woman do all the talking. Ro was not especially comfortable with this role.

"Marie looks at me like I'm some kind of animal," she said as they walked toward the Picard house in the twilight.

"Oh, that's all in your head."

"It's not."

"Well, she's not the one you have to convince anyway."

"No, but she's pretty close to the one I have to convince."

Silva frowned as she pondered that assessment. "No, I don't think the two women are very much alike. Madame Picard is traditional, formal, an old-fashioned lady. Dr. Crusher does all kinds of things that a white lady doesn't usually do. She'll listen to you and she'll understand. She's very smart."

"You don't think Madame Picard is smart?"

"Not like Dr. Crusher."

Ro sighed loudly in frustration.

Guinan met them at the back door. "They've finished dinner and are sitting on the side verandah.

Silva nodded. "How is Dr. Crusher adapting to living here?"

Guinan did not mince words. "She seems pretty bored to me. It's only been a week, but she seems to be done with all her letter-writing, plant-gathering and reading by early afternoon. Then she doesn't seem to know what to do with herself the rest of the day."

"Doesn't she take a nap?" Silva asked.

"No, she doesn't like to, but Madame Picard is trying to get her into the habit."

Ro looked at her companions. "Good. Hopefully, we can convince her to do something else with her idle hours."

Guinan led the two women through the kitchen, the back hallways that servants occupy and the dining room. At the door to the verandah, they heard Marie talking about having new furniture built.

"Mr. Soong likes carpentry and I believe Geordi helps him, although I'm not sure how."

"Excuse me, Madame."

"Oh, Guinan, please come in. Hello Miss Ro, Silva." Marie was nothing if not a polite hostess. She made sure everyone was seated comfortably and offered refreshments before any discussion of business began.

Ro awkwardly stumbled through pleasantries at the best of times, and her current crisis was far from those. Even though Beverly and she were not enemies, she had no idea what the other woman thought of her or her abolitionist work. Why would the doctor want to help her? Complicating things further, their whole scheme was based on Silva's many assumptions about Beverly, any number of which could be completely wrong.

"So, uh, how are you settling in?" Ro asked Beverly.

"All right, I suppose, Beverly sighed. "It's not too difficult to get comfortable in a beautiful home with a close friend."

"Of course."

After that brief exchange, Ro was stuck. She looked to Silva for guidance, but, true to her warning that Ro would have to start figuring things out by herself, the African woman was staring intently at a hanging plant just above Guinan's head, making it impossible for Ro to make eye contact with her.

"It's a lovely plant, isn't it?" Marie followed Silva's eyes and adjusted the conversation accordingly. "Beverly brought it from her house. It's called fuscia."

"My, it's very beautiful," Silva said.

"Thank you," Beverly said. She began to get the feeling that the women had something to say to her, but were, for some reason, nervous to say it. "We could probably find a place to plant some. You have so much land here, between the two estates. I've taken some walks around the property, but I'm sure there's a great deal I haven't seen yet."

Silva's head spun around and she glared at Ro. With a quick smirk back to Silva to confirm that she did get the hint, Ro attempted to smile at Beverly. "I could show you around tomorrow, if you have time."

Beverly saw something pass between the two visitors, but felt no need for alarm. Rather, she viewed an outing with Miss Ro as a way to break up what had already become the monotony of her days. Beverly truly enjoyed Marie's company and the two women had had some pleasant talks, played some parlor games, sewn together and, one day, when it wasn't too hot for Marie, gone for a short stroll. But, Beverly was simply not suited for a life of leisure. She had known this for years even though she had never had the opportunity to try out a sedentary existence. Although she had little in common with Miss Ro, she imagined that they could make small talk around the different areas and functions of the plantation as they walked.

"That would be very nice," she said. "How about tomorrow morning?"

"That would be perfect."

Feeling that her mission had been accomplished, Ro would have liked to have stood up and left. She knew, however, that she was expected to stay and socialize with her hostesses. The group slipped into an awkward silence.

"How are things going?" Marie asked Ro to get the conversation flowing again.

Ro's briefly panicked face gave away the buried trouble that the innocent question had uncovered. "It's been . . . a bit of an adjustment, I would say."

"Oh?"

Aha, Beverly thought, there's some kind of problem she wants to show me. As the other women chattered, Beverly tried to deduce what the problem could be. She knew that new cabins had been built in a village designed by Jean-Luc. Were they too close together, causing illness to spread among different families? He had been so proud when he had shown her the plans that she had simply shared his excitement and not thought of potential medical ramifications.

"Well, so much has changed this year. The fields are different, everyone is free and has a new house. We've combined the two workforces but the captain is gone and Worf is . . . uh, re-assigned."

Beverly frowned. It sounded as though Miss Ro was experiencing difficulties in the operation of the plantation itself. Surely, the younger woman knew that farming lay well beyond Beverly's area of expertise. Why would Miss Ro want to show her problems on the plantation?

The answer came the following morning after the two women had taken a thorough tour of the combined properties' vast miles of cotton fields, vegetable gardens, village and barns. Beyond suggesting a plant additive to the animal fertilizer in the gardens, Beverly had not contributed a single suggestion to help improve the farming operations.

If she could have offered assistance, however, she would have liked to have done so. Everywhere they turned, it seemed, things were in disarray. Teenaged girls and children were playing and chatting instead of tending to the food they were growing for the residents to eat. Men in the fields bickered and, in one case, physically fought over how to best utilize the land or store the cotton or virtually anything else. There was competition over the use of the mechanized farm machinery and disputes over who had a better job in the Ro and Picard households and why.

When Ro and Beverly sat down on the former's verandah for a cool drink, Ro motioned for Silva—who had delivered a silver tray with the pitcher of iced tea and two glasses—to sit down with them. To her consternation, however, Silva merely shook her head and backed away.

Beverly saw the exchange. After wiping her sweaty neck and dabbing her face with her handkerchief, she drank some iced tea and looked at her companion. "Miss Ro, it certainly seems as though you have some problems. But, I'm not sure why you thought it was so important to show them to me. I certainly can't help you."

Ro liked Beverly's directness. No need to deploy social formalities or pleasantries to ease into a troublesome topic. "Actually, Dr. Crusher, I think that you can. Our entire cotton harvest is at risk if we can't get everyone to cooperate and work together. Captain Picard worked very hard to set up a village of freedmen and he's counting on the harvest to pay all these workers. We owe it to him to get it done right."

The mention of Jean-Luc pricked her conscience, yet— "I still don't see what I can do to fix any of the problems."

"With the captain and Worf gone, we need someone to organize and manage the workforce and the process."

"Don't you have an overseer?"

"In title, yes, we have Mr. Soong. But Worf was the real overseer."

"But, I don't have any experience with farming or ordering people around," Beverly countered. She shook her head in frustration. "What would you expect me to do anyway?"

Ro took a deep breath. The countless times she had rehearsed this moment, she imagined that this conversation would be excruciatingly painful. Speaking with Beverly, now, the words simply came to her. "Everyone here respects you. You'd be seen as a neutral party, where I am not. I think you would be able to talk to people, to encourage them to work together for the good of all of us. I think you could be a strong leader."

Beverly scoffed. "What makes you think _I'm_ strong?"

Ro could not fathom how Beverly could question her own credentials in that area. She folded her arms across her chest and briefly looked sideways in disbelief. "First of all, Captain Picard has a great deal of faith in you and he's not easy to impress."

"Really?"

"Second, you come highly recommended by Guinan and the only other people she's ever recommended to me were the captain and Worf."

Beverly raised her eyes at her inclusion in such a select group.

"Third, I've seen you with my own eyes. Beverly, you discovered we were conducting on the underground railroad and two minutes later you were operating on a fugitive in a dark, hot tunnel. No questions asked. And you worked on him for hours. Without a single complaint. And, then, you operated on the captain, somehow got him up to his house safely and then . . . you forgave him.

"I always admired you for . . . ," Ro was very surprised to find emotion choking her words, "for being your own woman. For being smart, when we're supposed to act stupid. For being honest, when we're not supposed to say what we really think. For taking care of yourself and Wesley, when we're supposed to need a man to do that for us.

"I didn't always know how to conduct people to freedom, just like you didn't always know how to be a doctor. But we learned because we had to, because lives depended on us learning. Right now, the captain, everyone's livelihood and safety, and even lives are depending on us.

"That's how I know you can do this."

Beverly was too stunned to say anything at first. It occurred to her that she had never heard Ro compliment anyone so profusely. In fact, the younger woman rarely—if ever—spoke so much at one time. Clearly, this meant a great deal to her, to have to try to convince Beverly with such a speech. Still, Beverly knew that her skills and experience were vastly different from those required to oversee an enormous cotton plantation.

Jean-Luc's had been as well, a small voice in her head whispered. He may have understood aspects of commanding men, but he had known nothing about cotton cultivation, the enslaved African population or anything else on the estate. When he had wanted a better way to harvest the crop, he had not designed and built machines himself; rather, he had assigned the task to the right people and they had completed it for him. Instead of living on his own, on the sea, with his trusted crew, he had had to learn to navigate the political games of his scheming neighbors. Having grown up in a country without slaves, he had risked his life, over and over, to save people he did not even know because it was the only option his sense of morality approved.

If Jean-Luc could completely change his life's work, through sheer determination and a confidence in his ability and values, then perhaps she could, too. Perhaps, as Ro had said, it was important that she at least try, because so much depended on the success of the harvest. Beverly knew she would not sleep comfortably, not now, knowing that Jean-Luc's whole cotton crop was in jeopardy and she might be able to save it. She loved her husband's unstoppable spirit and uncompromising dedication to duty. In his absence, taking up his mantle would be a way to honor him and, in a way, to feel closer to him.

She had made up her mind.

Beverly turned to Ro. "I admire you, too, Miss Ro, very much, for your courage and strength."

Ro looked away.

Beverly took a deep breath and exhaled. "Now, where do we start?"

Beneath a window on the verandah, slouching to conceal her presence on a chair in the front sitting room, Silva felt a surge of pride as she heard Ro Laren, whom she had raised since infancy, persuade Beverly to help them and begin to map out a plan to save the harvest. She wiped a tear from her cheek. Yes, she thought, my baby's come a long way.


	37. Chapter 37

Hello All, Sorry, just a short update today, to let you know I'm still writing. Also, a note re the history of the Civil War:

A Guest reviewer posted a review on Chap 34 with some personal family history from the war that I found fascinating and I recommend you check it out. Thank you so much for sharing your story.

Re Guest's historical notes: in my high school history class, we weren't told what the cause of the war was, but assigned to research the cause(s) and form our own opinions. I wrote a long (of course) paper concluding that the root cause of the war was economic: the agrarian economy of the south and the manufacturing economy of the north caused conflict between the two regions on a number of issues, including tariffs, the national bank, states' rights and slavery. There's considerable evidence that many northerners were not particularly interested in ending slavery and, as Guest points out, most southerners of the day did not own large numbers of slaves like the Picards, Nechayevs, etc. in my story. I dropped the characters into the roles that made sense for them (to me), thus Lwaxanna Troi and Q own slaves and Beverly and Miles O'Brien do not, and so on. I chose the focus and themes for dramatic purposes, not to be representative of the entirety of antebellum life.

In a future chapter, I had planned to have a character argue from the Confederate point of view—political and practical, in that their land was invaded by the enemy. I will keep Guest's comments in mind to inform my writing, so thank you, Guest, again for taking the time to write.

As I said at the outset, I don't want to offend anyone, and I realize that is a risk with this type of story. I'm glad for the chance to explain, to incorporate another view and to apologize to Guest for any offense taken.

Thank you all for reading and reviewing!

Be creative, be well,

Liz

* * *

"You asked to see me, sir?" The subservient words and tone felt alien on Jean-Luc's tongue, but the Confederate Army major to whom both were addressed did not notice.

"Yes, Picard, come in, have a seat," Q said, behind his oversized desk. "At ease," he added, upon seeing how stiff the older, yet lower-ranked man remained even in a sitting posture. "How is everything going?"

"Very well, sir." His shoulders may have relaxed, but Jean-Luc's manner remained rigid.

"Yes, yes fine." Q dismissively responded to the captain's words almost before he had finished answering the question. "Good to hear. Picard, I'll get right to the point." Q leaned back in his chair and set his boots on his desk, then crossed his hands over his stomach. Jean-Luc practically paled at the informality. Q was happy to see his most egotistical officer put on edge. "Our regiment will be on parade before General Johnston on Friday and I want your company to lead the parade."

"Yes, sir." Jean-Luc's acknowledgement of the order was unemotional.

"Do you know why I've chosen you?"

"No, sir. You haven't deigned to share that information, sir."

"Will you stop 'sirr-ing' me?"

"No, sir."

"No, sir? What in the name of Zeus are you doing, Picard?"

Q frowned, obviously perturbed. Jean-Luc, on the other hand, sat still and cold as a statue.

"Major, you have made it abundantly clear that our relationship is to be based on the strictest military formality, sir. As I do not wish to step out of line and risk having a blemish on my record, I will endeavor to follow your every rule as closely as possible. Sir." Jean-Luc spoke calmly but assertively and appeared a man at ease and confident about his decided course of action. Though his very speech proclaimed his deference, his bearing still betrayed his retention of control—personal control and, to some extent, control of the situation.

Q's boots thumped on the ground as he sat forward, hands on his desk and gazed intently at the man sitting across from him. "Oh, give me a break, Picard. Your fake obsequiousness isn't going to save you if I decide to come down hard on you. And your fake concern about your own future in the army doesn't fool me. I know that you're far more concerned about the men under your command—their training, their safety and their futures."

As surprised as Jean-Luc was to hear Q's threat and uncanny explication of his actual priorities, Jean-Luc made sure that his face revealed nothing. In fact, Q's admission that he knew Jean-Luc's real motivation was showing his hand, in part. He had put Jean-Luc on warning that his potential adversary was more insightful than he seemed. Going forward, Jean-Luc would make a note to be more careful in whom he confided in and how he approached his commanding officer.

"Understood, sir."

Q rolled his eyes and his head along with them in a dramatic flourish. "Oh, again with the 'sirs.' If it will satisfy your petty, deep-seated need for control, you can go ahead and 'sir' me to death. I assure you, it won't be _my_ death."

Q stood and began to pace in a circle around his desk, the two chairs and the remaining occupant of one of them without saying anything. Jean-Luc counted his breaths to take his mind off Q's obvious attempt to unnerve him.

Finally, after three or four purposefully slow laps, Q spoke. "Captain Picard, I want you to tell me why, in your estimation, I might want your company to march first past General Johnston."

Jean-Luc answered immediately. "Well, Major, you have of course observed all the companies in your regiment and are aware of all of our strengths and weaknesses. Knowing that you have assessed us all, as you must, I can only conclude that you have determined my company will look the best and you wish to display your strongest, most impressive company in front of the general."

"Exactly." From behind him, Q suddenly bent his tall form above Jean-Luc so that he practically spoke into the seated man's ear. This unexpected proximity did have the intended unsettling effect, as it made Jean-Luc start.

Pleased, Q straightened and continued to pace. "Every general watches the first company of a regiment closely, but his attention wanes quickly. I want Johnston to see _your_ men and I want your men to be _perfect._ If there is a man out of step, a belt buckle unpolished, a button crooked, then you _will_ be out of line, you _will_ receive a blemish on your record, and your men _will_ be punished.

"Is that understood?"

Picard abruptly stood and snapped to attention, stone-faced and addressing the empty desk in front of him. "Yes, sir," he said, in a voice that was a bit louder than necessary.

Unseen behind his junior officer, Q shook his head at the man's insistence on communicating his disrespect through exaggerated motions of respect. For a moment, Q pitied Jean-Luc.

So incensed was he at Q's dominance-establishing antics, Jean-Luc nearly missed the significance of what Q had just told him.

"Major, a question, if I may?" He asked in a controlled voice.

Q slowly and deliberately walked around him. When the two men were face to face, Q sneered, "You may."

"Sir, may I know the reason that General Johnston will be reviewing the troops?"

Q took his time responding, his chin up and his head held at an angle, as though he were measuring the man before him and considering whether he was worthy of this particular piece of knowledge. Not fooled by Q's posturing, however, Jean-Luc harbored no doubt that Q knew the moment the question was asked—and, most likely, long before—how much he wanted to reveal to his subordinate. Furthermore, Q's delay confirmed Jean-Luc's suspicions.

"Yes," Q finally said, with kingly arrogance, "you may know. The general is looking for several more regiments to add to the Army of the Potomac. There are even rumors that his army may be merged with the Army of Northern Virginia. For us to join at this early stage would almost certainly lead to a key deployment and an early opportunity to prove our mettle in battle. I'm sure you're pleased about having a chance to show off what you can do in the thick of things with the Yankees."

Jean-Luc did not respond as he mulled over this potential change in his and his men's fortunes. If the regiment sufficiently impressed the general, then they would be headed to northern Virginia—to the hub of the war. Although only minor engagements with the enemy had occurred since the Battle of Bull Run, Jean-Luc knew it was only a matter of time before both armies were adequately organized enough to attack in numbers large enough to create many casualties. He did not plan to be in northern Virginia and, more importantly, he did not intend for Wesley to be there, when that occurred.

Q had sat down at his desk and resumed his slouching in his chair. "Tell me, Picard, how are things back home?"

The question was completely unanticipated and Jean-Luc again found himself having to maintain his poker face. "Things are fine, sir. Thank you for asking."

"I only ask because you're a newlywed," Q said with a wink, "and I'm sure you miss your new wife."

"I do, sir," Jean-Luc said truthfully, "but I do not allow my personal feelings to interfere with my military duties. Sir."

Q contorted into mock offense. "Of course not! I would never accuse the great Jean-Luc Picard of such a base and common thing," his brow lowered and eyes glaring, he sneered anew, "as being guided by his feelings."

Jean-Luc ignored the slight.

Q continued. "We men of character must always place our honor and duty above our, how shall I put it, our carnal instincts. Why, imagine the chaos that would erupt if we men let ourselves be governed in our affairs by our passions. Even worse," Q sat up straight and wide-eyed, as if the idea had just occurred to him, "imagine the societal anarchy that would threaten our very way of life if we married men allowed ourselves to stray from our marital beds to follow any lustful wench who happened to sashay past us and laugh at our witticisms." The last was spoken as Q leaned over the desk, leering at Jean-Luc and, at the end of his speech, winking again.

Just like that, for no reason that he could presently discern, Jean-Luc realized that Q had again tipped his hand. Although Jean-Luc could not tell if Q had some actual knowledge or if he merely suspected and was fishing for a reaction, one thing was certain: Q knew _something._ What that would mean for him was maddeningly unclear. The hints that Q had dropped could have led dangerously close to Beverly. Alarm bells sounded in Jean-Luc's head. Keeping his face blank and his posture unflinching required every ounce of control and self-discipline that he could call forth. He breathed evenly and looked Q in the eyes, his face a blank mask that adopted a questioning look of innocence as Q's moral dictates slithered into innuendo. Not knowing how Q had come to suspect anything unusual about his love life was a distressing development in their relationship, one which caused Jean-Luc, in turn, to suspect, for the second time in this exchange, that someone he had trusted had betrayed him—this time, by revealing his deepest secret, his relationship with Beverly. The prospect of her being in danger sparked an anger in him, which he quickly extinguished—for now. Although Q's words had the effect of steering his attention toward Beverly and pleasant memories, he deliberately emptied his thoughts of any trace of her and concentrated on Miss Ro, as though Q could read his mind.

For the time being, however, Jean-Luc knew how to respond.

He nodded his head, "Agreed, sir."

* * *

Wesley Crusher took a break. Leaning on his shovel, he removed his cap and used his shirtsleeve to wipe the sweat off his forehead. For what seemed like the fiftieth time, the men of the regiment had bullied him into digging a latrine. By unspoken agreement, they assigned him all the unpleasant chores that they could get away with unloading on him. He hated feeling like a cockroach that they would just as soon squash as spit on—and several of the men had done plenty of the latter.

"Mr. Crusher!"

A familiar voice boomed as the cracking of branches heralded the big man's approach. Wesley resumed work, in the hope that appearing occupied would excuse him from awkward small talk.

"Aren't you done digging that latrine yet?"

Lt. Riker walked right up to him and stood with his hands on his hips, his height making him appear to lean over the younger man.

Obviously, I'm not done, Wesley thought. "No sir, not quite," he said. The soil was rocky and the punishing task was taking him even longer than his tormentors had anticipated.

Riker stepped back and, appraising Wesley, frowned. "Weren't you the one who dug the latrine at our last camp?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the camp before that?"

"Yes, sir."

Will's face and tone softened. "Wesley, you're going to have to stand up for yourself with the men."

The advice sounded as unhelpful as the captain's vague wisdom. "How do I do that exactly? There's always a group of them versus just me. Whenever I start to get to know someone new, the men from our county talk to him and tell them what an awful person I am. I can't get anywhere with these people."

"Wes, you broke the law and you can't change that. But, you're here now in this situation and you have to improve your standing with the men. No one else can do that for you."

"How can I do that?"

"Have you tried helping them out?" Wesley gestured to his current project. "I mean, unsolicited help. Bring a cup of water to someone who doesn't look too good after a long hike. Give a direction to someone who looks lost in the woods. Don't forget, these men are just like you."

Wesley rolled his eyes and, when he spoke, he sounded haughty. "Not really."

"Oh, no? You all were born and raised in the same part of Georgia. Most of them, like you, are from modest backgrounds. You're all citizens of the Confederate States of America, which is being invaded by an enemy army from the North."

"But, they weren't the enemy a year ago. They were _our_ army. We were all Americans." Wesley was prepared to go on at some length.

Will's eyes narrowed. "That was true then, but it's not true now. When they meet you on the battlefield, they're not going to be thinking of what used to be. They're going to try to kill you and the only people who can help you stay alive are the men in your company. That's another thing you have in common with them: you're wearing the same uniform."

Wesley opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He had no idea how to make Lt. Riker understand his perspective and his situation.

Will pointed at the hole in the ground as he turned to leave. "I want that finished before dinner."

"Yes, sir," Wesley mumbled, mostly to himself, wondering whether Will Riker was any better than the others.


	38. Chapter 38

Five weeks, Beverly thought as she marched across the first of the cotton fields in the sweltering heat. I've only got five weeks to get everyone to cooperate and harvest all this cotton. She donned the floppy hat that Ro had given her for protection from the sun and looked up across the land.

It was impressive, massive acreage, more than she had ever seen. Scanning the land in the distance, she began to appreciate why the neighboring planters felt jealous of Jean-Luc and suspicious of his motives toward Miss Ro. Guinan, she knew, had information about the price of cotton and the number of acres they had planted and could supply Beverly with the results of the arithmetic. Suffice it to say, Jean-Luc and Miss Ro stood to make a very handsome profit, which they would in turn distribute to the people who had worked the land in the form of wages. The sum involved was staggering and Beverly tried to ignore the finances as she dove into the interpersonal conflicts that threatened the entire scheme.

Long ago, when Jack had gone off to war, Beverly had been left to care for their small plot of land. Although everyone knew that tending a paltry few acres was an entirely different undertaking than the management of a large plantation, Beverly hoped that something of what she had learned in her farming foray would be applicable to her current task. So many people were counting on her to resolve the problems affecting productivity. She worried that she might not be able to live up to their expectations.

The earthy smell of the soil brought her back to the problems before her. She noticed as she walked that several heads turned to look at her, curious, she was sure, what the physician's assistant was doing traipsing about in their world. Since her marriage to Jean-Luc was a secret, she had had to fabricate, with Guinan's help, a story about her coming to help her good friend Marie to establish her reason for seeming to interfere. She had planned to gather all the workers together and deliver a speech she had written on the importance of cooperation to meet a collective goal. Guinan, her rehearsal audience, had looked skeptical of this tack and instead recommended that she simply "be herself," but Beverly was uncomfortable with such a free form approach. She preferred to prepare thoroughly before any complex task.

"Morning, Dr. Crusher," a large man said to her with a tip of his broad-brimmed hat as he walked by carrying a sack of potatoes.

Beverly smiled. "Good morning, Sam. How are your wife and children?"

He stopped and set down his load, a broad smile lighting his face. "Why, they're fine, just fine. My sons are growing faster than this here cotton. My baby girl is startin' to talk. She's just so sweet." His pride was evident. "Matter of fact, she might be right 'round here." He looked past Beverly in the direction of the house. "The little ones play in a yard set right over yonder."

"Oh, I'd love to see her," Beverly said, turning to look. She had delivered all their children and remembered how excited Sam and his wife had been at welcoming their first girl after four boys. From where they were, she could not see the area he mentioned.

When she returned her attention to him, Sam seemed on the verge of saying something, frowning as if unsure he should commit to what he wanted to do. "Well, . . . I 'pologize, Dr. Crusher. I'd take you over there and show you, ma'am, but, see, I got to get these here potatoes over to the barn before . . . well, before some other folks gets there."

Beverly blinked. "What other folks?" She asked, although she had a pretty good idea what he meant.

"Aw, it's nothin'."

"You're worried about someone taking your potatoes?"

"It's just that some o' them Ro people been known to help themselves to our food."

"But, Sam, you're all on the same plantation now. Since . . . ," Beverly could not bring herself to say "since the captain and Miss Ro were married." "Since the two properties were combined, there are no more 'Picard people' or 'Ro people.' You're all working together."

Sam's face had been twisted in social agony throughout the conversation, pained at having to explain to an outsider—even one as nice as Dr. Crusher—the internecine disputes of the field hands. At her pronouncement that they were all working together, however, he actually smiled again.

"Aw, ain't nobody workin' together here, ma'am. We all just workin' for ourselves now we freed." Sam's smile vanished as he remembered that he was not supposed to tell people of everyone's new freedom.

Beverly noticed. "It's all right, Sam, I know that you're all free now and working to earn your own money. But that doesn't mean you don't have to work together. People everywhere with a job have to cooperate and get along with others."

"You only got to get along with Dr. Quaice, not a hundred other people."

"Yes, but . . . well, in those factories up North, people work with hundreds of others and that's just what they have to do to earn their money."

"But that's people up North. That's different people. What's that got to do with us?"

"Sam, people are the same everywhere you go . . . ." Even as Beverly said the words, she was struck by the obvious differences between just the two of them. Sam's clothes were old and threadbare and his hands were hardened by his years of long, back-breaking hours in the field, while she almost always had enough cloth to make herself new dresses and she worked indoors doing relatively easy work. Her skin, she knew, was fair among white people's and his skin was darker than that of many black people. Beverly was certain that these differences were not important, but, put on the spot by Sam, she was suddenly unable to explain that.

Beverly did not fare much better with her message at the mid-day meal, where everyone was gathered to eat on a shady hillside above the fields. The men and women interrupted her almost immediately.

"Does this mean we have to work _their_ land, too?"

"I work harder than a lot of the other men. I should get more money."

"I'm not takin' orders from _him."_

"My husband and I both work so we should get a bigger share than single people."

Quietly panicking underneath her calm exterior, Beverly looked to Guinan for help, but with nothing more than an I-told-you-so lift of her thin eyebrows, Guinan calmly walked off in the direction of the Picard barn. Not for the first time that day, Beverly wished Jean-Luc was there to lend his eloquence and confident leadership to the clash of personalities. He was not there, of course, but, as his wife, it was up to her to act in his stead, just as she had years ago for Jack. That this task was vastly more complex, with much more at stake, was a reflection of the two men: Jack earned a living for his family; Jean-Luc masterminded an enterprise that would change the lives of hundreds. Beverly could not think of herself as a simple farmer's wife—she was the wife of an aristocratic Frenchman, a wealthy landowner who respected people from all backgrounds and was determined to treat every soul who lived and worked on his land equally and fairly. That was it, she realized.

Beverly walked from her post on the fringe of the group of nearly one hundred people to the center, a movement that caused most of the conversation and argument to stop. People looked up in surprise at her surrounding herself with so many black people, which, in their experience, white women did not do.

She squared her shoulders and, having almost everyone's attention, began to speak. "All right, we're going to straighten out everyone's problems, but we're going to do it one at a time. Everyone will have a chance to speak, _everyone._ Each problem will be addressed to the satisfaction of the person who raised it before we move on to the next one. We all stay here until everyone has spoken. Agreed?"

Shock gave way to mutters here and there, until one middle-aged man stood, removed his hat and spoke. "Meaning no disrespect, Dr. Crusher, ma'am, but what exactly do you know about growing cotton that makes you think you can fix our problems?"

Beverly smiled kindly. "Oh, I'm not going to fix them. _You_ are.

The grumbling returned.

"How's that gonna happen when we don't agree 'bout nothin'?" An angry voice yelled from the middle of one group.

"By listening to one another and _respecting_ one another." Beverly began to turn around slowly, trying to make eye contact with as many people as possible as she spoke. "Isn't that what this is all about, respect? Isn't that what you all want, now that you're free and now that you see a chance to earn some money and maybe one day own your own land?

"You want to be just as respected as the white people and you should be. But you have to also respect each other. You have to understand that what's important to your neighbor or someone from the other estate matters just as much as what's important to you.

"That's why I want you all to have a chance to air your complaints to the group and have them resolved fairly."

Most of the audience silently began to mull over her words. Eventually, some began to nod and others to talk quietly to their friends.

One young man stood up. "If we all get a chance to complain, that'll take up most of the afternoon."

" _All_ of the afternoon," someone else chimed in.

Beverly nodded. "It might, but this is important. We'll all be much more productive once we clear up the problems that are holding us back, so we can make up one lost afternoon of work."

The crowd was not entirely convinced.

"I don't know 'bout that."

"Yes, yes we can."

"I could work harder but I don't know about _some_ others."

Sam stood and strode to the middle of the group, towering over Beverly. People were not used to seeing him speak up and he was not completely comfortable doing so, now that he had arrived at the center of attention and all eyes were on him. "Um, look, I just want to say: for my whole life, we all been angry at white folks—um, no disrespect, Dr. Crusher—and at slavery. But, we're not slaves no more, none of us. And we heard lots of white folks say that we can't take care of ourselves, that we stupid. We know we ain't stupid! I wanna work all this . . . this nonsense out peacefully, just like they do, so we can get back to—"

"Peacefully? They fighting a war, north and south against each other!"

"Well, that's just stupid white folks."

"Any kind of 'peacefully' got to mean I don't got to work with _that_ woman.

"Sam's right!" A medium-sized, somewhat stout man with a round face and a gray beard stood and spoke, not shouting, but with authority. People around him stopped speaking and looked up at him. "We all know how to harvest cotton. Many of us know how to use the new machines." Nods and noises of approval, as more and more of the confused, angry workers started to listen to him. "Now that we're free, we've chosen to stay here to build a life for ourselves. A _real_ life, a _free_ life." Numerous "amens" circled the crowd. "We're not always going to get along with everyone else here. Disagreements are normal. It's how we _solve_ those disagreements that will set us apart and make us strong."

The ideas were readily accepted by those sitting at the man's feet and quickly repeated to those too far away to hear him. General affirmation spread through the crowd like a wildfire.

He began to walk around, among them, and raised his voice. "And if we bring the harvest in on time—no, early, maybe the first harvest of the county—then we will have proven ourselves and _earned_ respect." The chorus of agreement grew louder. "I believe we would be in our rights to ask Captain Picard for a _bonus_ for our hard work!"

Cheers erupted briefly, but the charismatic speaker quieted them with a downward gesture of his hands. He effortlessly commanded their attention.

"But we would only be entitled to a bonus, we could only dare to ask for a bonus, if we pull together and work hard, harder than we ever have. That's how free people earn money. And we can take that money and buy things for our new houses—silverware, cloth to make curtains. We can buy shoes for ourselves, medicine for our children."

Some began to quietly sing. Beverly stood silent, amazed. The older man continued to talk over the gentle music, his voice growing louder and louder, his body turning in the center space to make eye contact and gesticulating to make his points.

"Each and every one of you has within you the strength, the _power_ , to overcome your anger and frustrations, to keep your focus on your goal ahead of you—that better life. To get there, we have to be better people, the people we always wanted to be! Now that we've shed the shackles that bound us, there's nothing holding us back, _nothing._ We can wake up every day, be happy every day, work hard every day, and come home to our own houses, every day!"

The music grew louder and was punctuated by more "amens" and other encouragements.

He finished by hammering his fist to accentuate his message: "Every one of us, every day! Every one of us, every day!"

The chant was picked up and elevated by the workers. "Every one of us, every day! Every one of us, every day!"

After several rounds, applause broke out, followed by individual shouts.

"You should be in charge!"

"Yeah, Dathon should run things."

"You could be the overseer."

"Dathon is smart. He can fix things."

For his part, Dathon appeared surprised at the movement to draft him, but Beverly was not entirely convinced that the campaign was unplanned. When he turned to her with an innocent shrug, she smiled.

"I agree," she said. "I think you'd make an excellent mediator and I could serve as your liaison to . . . ." She faltered, uncomfortably wrestling with Jean-Luc's fake marriage and nearly substituting the phrase "the white people," but, meeting Dathon's reassuring eyes, she felt grounded in her decision. " . . . to the Picards," she managed.

"If you're comfortable with that arrangement, doctor," Dathon said to her apologetically.

Beverly answered quickly. "I am."

Next, Dathon did something completely unexpected: he extended his hand for her to shake. Even more shocking, Beverly took his hand. After a long moment, during which the gathered people processed what they had just seen, a smattering of applause broke out, then spread. Before the crowd dispersed, Beverly saw people from both plantations slapping each other on the back and hugging and talking, ending their disputes and returning to the afternoon sun to work. It felt as though a heavy cloud of anger had cleared.

As Dathon and she watched them leave, Guinan and Mr. Soong appeared on the crest of the hill.

"Uh, I- sorry I'm late," Mr. Soong stuttered. "Did I miss anything?"

Dathon looked at Beverly.

"No, Mr. Soong. I'll update you." Smiling, she turned back to Dathon. "Thank you and congratulations on your new position."

"Dr. Crusher, ma'am, congratulations on yours." He nodded, tipped the brim of his hat, then began to laugh as he walked away.

The three remaining watched him follow the workers back to the fields. A self-satisfied smile on her face, Guinan said to Beverly, "I knew you could do it."

"I'm not sure I did anything." Beverly marveled at the stirring eloquence of the man she had just witnessed. Something about his calm air of authority reminded her of Jean-Luc.

Guinan nodded. "Oh, you did something. You'll be doing more as the season goes on, too."

Mr. Soong looked befuddled. "I'm sorry? I don't think I know what's going on, exactly."

Taking in everything, Beverly began to see a different structure to the work force and the work on the plantation. "Mr. Soong, I think you're going to have a different job from now on."

"I am?" He sounded worried.

"Yes, it's a promotion." She turned to face him and smiled to ease his mind. "From now on, I'd like you to focus on problem-solving. How can we make things run more smoothly, how can we improve output, fix what's broken, that kind of thing."

"Oh, like the new irrigation system I'm designing."

"Installing, Mr. Soong," Beverly corrected. "You'll need to install is as soon as possible because that will free up people for other tasks."

"I don't—uh, yes, yes ma'am, I think I can, it's just . . . ." Soong looked away, distracted by thoughts of how Geordi and he could implement the project on their own.

"Is there a problem?"

"Well, I just, usually, we work with Wesley . . . ." Soong shrugged helplessly.

Taken aback by the mention of her son, Beverly recovered quickly. "All right, we'll have to find you some help."

"Help?" Soong was startled by the offer. His original team of Geordi, Wesley and himself had formed organically. He could not fathom recruiting someone to work with him. Where would this person come from? "How do we find some help?"

Beverly returned her gaze to the now tiny figure of Dathon in the distance. Singing could be heard in the fields around him. "I have an idea of someone who could point us in the right direction."

Soong leaned to one side to follow the subject of her scrutiny, who was too far away for him to recognize. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

Beverly felt a warmth inside that was not caused by the sun boring down on them. She felt that she had done the right thing for Jean-Luc's people and his land. She had never before met the new leader, Dathon, who apparently had not fathered any children since Beverly had begun working for Dr. Quaice, but he engendered trust immediately and his results could not be denied. She would meet with him, watch operations from a distance, see to it that he had whatever materials he needed. A small voice inside her head quietly asked if Jean-Luc would have approved of her solution.

"Well done, Dr. Crusher." Beverly started at Guinan's sudden presence at her elbow. "I don't think the captain himself could have done better."

Beverly turned to thank Guinan for the reassurance and the two women shared a smile.

"Who's that man?" Soong asked.

"That's the new over—no, I think I like the word 'manager' better," Beverly said. "That man is the new manager of the plantation."

"Oh." Very little of his conversation with Beverly Crusher had made much sense to him. Soong decided to stop trying. He smiled at Mrs. Crusher, gave a polite nod of his head to the two women, then proceeded back down the hill. He had so much work to do to install the irrigation system.

* * *

Geordi sat on the top step of the back porch, shucking corn, when he heard the distinctive humming of his mother, Silva, approaching from the direction of the Ro property. He remembered how she used to sing him to sleep when he was small, before his family had been broken up. It had been so difficult to fall asleep on those hot summer nights, before the sun had set, but his mother's voice, so close to his ear, as she lay beside him, never failed to lull him into a peaceful slumber.

Silva climbed on to the porch, set down a basket and sat next to her son. She patted his head, echoing their former closeness that he had just been recalling.

"Afternoon," she said.

"Good afternoon, Ma. Are those green beans?"

"Yes, I thought we could divide your corn and our beans so that everybody got a little of both."

"Sounds good." Geordi was accustomed to his mother's ideas always making sense.

"I already cut off the stems so you can cook 'em tonight. How are you making out with the corn?"

"Well, I've got a lot of it shucked already." He reached toward the basket on his other side to give her some ears.

"I'll get it." Silva stood and retrieved an empty bushel basket from the far corner of the porch. She loaded the corn into the basket. "You have quite a lot more to do," she observed, of the pile at his feet.

Geordi chuckled, his mother's critical observations had always been part of her nature. "Yes, I'm a little bit behind schedule. I was trying to help Mr. Soong fix the irrigation system and . . . ."

"Did you fix it?"

That question stung a little, Geordi had to admit. "Well, not quite yet, but we're close."

"Oh. I suppose that's good."

Her task finished, she sat down next to him again and started helping him with the corn. The two enjoyed being together without saying anything. The air was warm and humid, but not unbearable, since they were sitting still.

After a spell, Guinan appeared through the back door. "Mrs. Riker has just come to visit Mrs. Crusher and Madame Picard."

This was the signal.

"I'll make sure the Rikers' horse gets some water." Geordi gave the pre-arranged response as though someone might be eavesdropping. He stood up.

"I'll help you," Silva said, setting an ear of corn on the porch step and rising.

Just then, the horse clomped down the path from the front of the mansion. A handsome black man with gray hair, wearing dressy livery, drove the carriage to the barn, where the teenage boy who worked there stood ready to take his horse. Geordi arrived just as the man climbed down.

"Hello, Pa," Geordi said.

"Hello, son." He looked Geordi over, saw that he appeared well fed and healthy, then glanced past him, at the woman approaching. "Hello, Silva," he called out hopefully.

"Edward," she answered, seemingly uninterested.

Edward made sure that the horse was being taken care of, then returned his attention to his family. His nerves perhaps making him sweat even more than the heat, he pulled a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his face. "Hot day," he commented.

"Yeah, it—" Geordi began to say.

"Not too bad for summer," Silva interrupted. She had been looking all around to make sure they were unobserved. Confident that no curious residents of the estate could chance to look up and spot them, she made the decision to act. "You two head over to the pump to get some water."

Her command made Edward more uneasy. "Which way to the pump?" He asked Geordi.

"Come on, I'll take you." Geordi started off in the direction of the water pump, with his father taking his arm to guide him. Neither looked back at Silva.

Calmly, Silva rounded the carriage to the storage compartment underneath the seats and opened the latch and then the lid. Two young men looked up at her in fright and she put a finger to her lips. She motioned for them to get out and after they complied, she closed up the compartment and quickly led them around the carriage to the far side of the barn. By the time Geordi and Edward began their stroll back toward the house, the three of them were out of sight, Silva feeding and hiding the men in preparation for their long journey.

"Look like you're doing well, son," Edward said.

"Thanks, dad, I'm fine. Things are pretty good, actually," Geordi answered.

"Oh?"

"Well . . . ," Geordi did not think of himself as the type of person who liked to boast because he did not like those arrogant, mouthy people, however, at this moment, to this man, he really wanted to boast. "I'm seeing someone and—"

"You are? Who is she?"

"Her name is Aquiel and she's a laundress."

"Hmm, serious?"

Again, Geordi tried to brag without seeming to do so. "Well, it's been a few months now and we're pretty happy . . . ."

Edward nodded before he remembered that his son could not see. "I see. So, you thinking about jumping the broom?"

The slave marriage ceremony was exactly what Geordi had been thinking about, for the last few weeks, but he had not told anyone, not even Aquiel. Edward divined his answer from his silence.

"Ah," he grasped Geordi's shoulder. "You're at the age, Lord knows, past the age."

Geordi chuckled at that.

Edward's face had been serious but kind as the two conversed, however, as the talk of marriage progressed, a shadow crossed his brow. Since Deanna had married Will a few months ago, Edward had reason to come to the Picard mansion, for the first time in years. Despite the occasional business deal, such as his purchase, Kyle Riker had little interaction with Robert Picard and Jean-Luc had never invited him. Edward enjoyed the time he now got to spend with Geordi, but he felt very differently about his wife, who had always kept her emotional distance. Even as a young woman, meeting up with him secretly when he snuck through the hole in the fence between the properties, Silva had been guarded. Even in moments of passion, Edward had sensed that she was holding something back. Perhaps, even then, she knew that she was destined for something else. Something that could get her killed at any time. Geordi felt the change in his father as the man's grip tensed.

"Pa, when are you two going to bury the hatchet?" Geordi asked his father point blank. Empowered by his recent success in affairs of the heart, he felt qualified to give unsolicited advice to his parents.

Unseen by Geordi, Edward shook his head. "It's not a hatchet, not exactly. It's . . . it's hard for us to get married. You never know when someone you love is going to be sold away. When that happens, you may never see her again."

"Yeah, but you two _can_ see each other now."

Edward looked into the distance, toward the Ro land, where he imagined Silva had gone. "We can, but maybe we don't want to."

"You both act like you want to. There's definitely something between you, still."

Edward chuckled, sounding exactly like his son. "You think so? You think maybe you see something I don't, my blind son?"

"Yes, actually I do. Ma doesn't treat anyone the way she treats you. Almost like she can't bear to see you or be around you."

"That's not usually a very good sign . . . ."

Geordi began to talk with his hands, the way he did when he was solving some type of engineering problem. "Yeah, but it's like what you said: when you grow up knowing you could lose the one you love, you become afraid to risk your heart. I think she's still afraid to love you because she's afraid to lose you."

Off in the distance, Silva could be seen near the Picard end of the tunnel, casually walking toward the Ro house. As if she could feel his eyes on her, she turned just as Edward found her. The two men watched her pause for a moment, then return to her hike with a purpose.

"Hmm," Edward said thoughtfully, "maybe you do see something there, Geordi, maybe you do."


	39. Chapter 39

Hello Everyone, thank you so much for reading and reviewing. Please hang in there on this long road of separation for our main characters. Things will be changing soon for them. Peace and long life, Liz

* * *

Several pieces of correspondence sat on Jean-Luc's desk, taunting him. The first new message from Q, which he read and stacked on top of the previous missive, disturbed his equanimity. Earlier in the day, Q had sent a word of the regiment's orders, which were to join General Johnston's army at the end of September. Jean-Luc had expected the assignment, after their flawless performance in front of the general two weeks earlier. What he had not expected was Q's denial of leave for the men before they left for Virginia, contained in his reply to the request Jean-Luc had immediately sent off.

There was absolutely no good reason for denying the men leave before they left the region, Jean-Luc fumed to himself. It would boost morale and renew their energy to spend some time at home. In the navy, when time permitted, he had always granted his crew shore leave before shipping out on a long journey. This was no different, that he could see. Q's refusal was nothing more than a petty exercise of authority for the sake of authority itself. Another example of his insecure, vindictive, mean-spirited leadership style that would breed nothing but contempt and hatred, rather than the loyalty he needed.

Of course, Jean-Luc admitted that his concern was as much for himself as for his men. He longed to see Beverly again. Their separation was driving him mad and her carefully coded letters were little consolation for seeing her, hearing her laugh and tease him, and touching her. Ever since he assumed they would have leave to go home, his daydreams had been occupied by thoughts of spending time with her, as the early autumn air cooled in the evenings. They could sit and read together on the verandah. He wanted to show her all around his property, proud of his family's wealth, yet at the same time, eager to re-distribute it according to the plan he had set in motion before he had left. If concerts were still being held in the next county, he would gladly sit through the grating American pieces for the chance to share the beauty of classical works with Beverly, holding her warm hand and watching her face relax as the music soothed her. Sitting here now, in the middle of the afternoon, in his uniform, sans jacket, he felt his body react to the thought of kissing Beverly. He looked at his hands, remembering how they had touched her breasts. As so often happened these days, his arousal grew with thoughts of the sights, smells, sounds and tastes of their lovemaking. No—he stopped himself. _I've too much to do today to indulge in fantasies that will only leave me desiring more of something I can't have._

With a weary sigh, Jean-Luc returned to his mail.

 _15 August 1861_

 _Dear Jean-Luc,_

 _I am in receipt of your letter of 14 May 1861_ _inquiring as to the advisability of moving your assets. I apologize for the lengthy delay in my response: I was previously occupied in ascertaining an informed answer for you._

 _From my sources in the financial world, I have been advised that now is not the best time to move valuable assets. Furthermore, the latest rumors hold that relocation of assets from the South to the North may not guarantee that they will retain their value. Smart men are looking to Europe to hold precious items and I am of the opinion, especially with your connections in London and on the continent, that transferring assets to Europe would be the wisest course of action for you._

 _I can, of course, assist you in this matter. Once you have made arrangements with the ultimate destination, I would be happy to organize and supervise shipment. Kindly advise as to your choice of action. Until then I remain_

 _Your humble servant,_

 _Walker Keel_

Jean-Luc set Walker's letter on his desk, exhaled, then leaned forward and rested his forehead in his hand. He had carefully plotted a course to sneak Wesley from the South to the North, beginning with a telegram he had sent to Walker, establishing their coded language, before leaving to join the army.

When months of silence had ensued, he had assumed that his good friend in New York City had encountered a problem. Now, Walker's letter had confirmed his worst suspicions and darkened his mood at a time when he hardly needed bad news, now that they were preparing to join the war in northern Virginia.

Although he had known that helping Wesley escape would take time, the reality of his inability to keep Wesley far out of harm's way weighed heavily on him. He could not avoid the feeling that he had failed, miserably. If anything happened to Wesley . . . he could not imagine that. The pain it would cause Beverly, who had already suffered the loss of her husband. During his first months in Georgia, he had noticed seen how Marie's face bore her anguish. Although he had never met her before, he noticed the smile lines on the sides of her mouth hanging down, abandoned and misshapen since her mouth no longer curved upward. In the sitting room in the evenings, countless times, he had seen Marie drift into depression, staring at a painting of René plaintively, her knitting forgotten on her lap as she pondered the life he would never lead, the child she had raised and lost forever. He could not cause Beverly this agony for the rest of her life. He could not. He would have to think of another plan.

He had one last letter to read. He cut open the envelope and inhaled the scent that was both torture and balm to him.

 _My Darling Husband,_

 _I have a great deal of news to report to you! I hope that you will be happy to hear that I have taken a more active role on the plantation. There was, for a time, some discord affecting people's ability to work together. The field hands really resolved their issues themselves, but I helped to start them on that process and I now serve to more or less facilitate any issues. Things have been running smoothly ever since, and I help the work of the estate by ensuring that all supplies and materials are purchased and new policies and procedures are approved as needed._

 _I also made a bit of a change. Mr. Soong, brilliant as he is, was not a very efficient overseer. I've given the job to another man, whom you can meet when you get your leave, which allows Mr. Soong to work on improving farm operations with new inventions. He's built more machinery and a better irrigation system. In addition to working with Geordi, I found him another assistant to replace Wesley, a young woman named Sonia. Geordi and he were surprised at first, that a woman could do this type of thinking, but she's a hard worker with a definite propensity for solving problems._

 _Many new occupations are coming into being on our land. For instance, one of the laundresses, Aquiel, has decided to become a seamstress and she's really quite talented. Someone else has begun repairing shoes, so we no longer have to send them out to be done. The vegetable garden is thriving and so are the smallest children, who, under the supervision of babysitters, tend the garden._

 _As the time for harvest is near, you should not expect to hear from me with the same frequency, while I turn all my attention to those tasks. I am writing this letter by candlelight, so excited to tell you all that is going on, even though I am bone tired from being outdoors until twilight._

 _No matter what chores may occupy me during the day, my thoughts will always return to you at night, my love. I still read your treasured books before I go to bed, to bring me closer to you—your opinions, your intellect, the man that they made you. This helps me feel your presence, just as I enjoy looking at your belongings in your study and in our bedroom. Your souvenirs of the sea, the things you took with you from Labarre. All this helps me to know the man I love and miss you just a little less._ _"I would not wish any companion in the world but you."_

 _All my love, all my heart,_

 _Your Devoted Wife_

By the time he reached the end of Beverly's letter, Jean-Luc had visibly relaxed. Glossing over her report of farm operations—which he incorrectly assumed referred to Ro's role in their combined business venture—he sat back in his chair, smiling shyly, inhaling her perfume. From her quote, he noted, pleased, that she was reading _The Tempest._ She had given him enough details that he could imagine her sitting in his comfortable armchair in his study, her legs tucked under her, as she did when she was alone, a candle burning low as she became engrossed in Shakespeare's works. He envisioned her examining the items on the shelf of his bookcase set aside for his mementos, her long, slim fingers running along his giant seashell from Tahiti, maybe picking it up. Would she know what to make of his sextant, an object anomalous on dry land that was indispensable to him as he looked to the moon and stars to calculate his position on the sea? He thought she might like the sensuous curves of the oil lamp he had stolen from Pompeii, though he would not want to admit to her how it had come into his possession. Could she possibly guess the sentimental value of his ship in a bottle—the very first one that he had built on his first ocean voyage decades ago? Perhaps that was asking too much of her intuition, but he pictured her lifting it up to the light, her intelligent eyes appreciating the painstaking work of assembling the tiny schooner.

He was enjoying this mental game prompted by her words and considering a capitulation to his beckoning desire, when he heard a sharp rap and a throat-clearing outside his tent.

"Come in," he called automatically.

Will entered and stood rigidly just inside. "Sir, I thought it best to inform you . . . ," he pulled a large, unlabeled brown-glass bottle out of his jacket, "that Mr. O'Brien was able to obtain some spirits from a local Carolina, uh, businessman." He beamed the smile that usually won over both women and men.

It worked. Jean-Luc sat up straight and reached into his trunk to retrieve his two whiskey glasses. "Tell me, Number One, how did the spirits make their way into your possession?"

"The usual way, sir," Will said, pulling up the second chair in the tent to the writing table, "through a poker game."

"Ah, I see." Jean-Luc had heard of Will's prowess in poker. He would have liked to have challenged the cocksure young man, but he did not think it appropriate to mix with his junior officers or enlisted men.

A few drinks with his first lieutenant, however, easily met his standards of propriety. The men talked easily, first about the company and the weaker areas where they wanted to achieve improvement before reaching the battlefield. They loosened into the weather, how the rains had produced inconvenient and malodorous mud around the lower lying tents, and various quotidian complaints of the soldiers. As he frequently did, Jean-Luc asked about Wesley. The younger man reported that Wesley was making some inroads with the men with his marksmanship skills, which he subtly taught them by saying every step he took out loud, but was still ostracized at mealtimes. It was the most encouraging report of his stepson's inching acceptance that he had heard thus far.

With the relaxed atmosphere between them, Jean-Luc sensed an opportunity to discern Will's loyalty. If, as he suspected, someone had betrayed him to Q, the only person with intimate knowledge of both his personal life and his military leadership was sitting at his table. He nimbly assessed the situation as calling for him to give a little of himself in order to elicit information from Will. "I had a letter from Beverly today."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Apparently, Miss Ro is quite taking charge on our plantation now," Jean-Luc reported erroneously.

"Really?"

Jean-Luc thought Will seemed slightly more interested than he should have been at the mention of Miss Ro. He immediately recalled that Will had let Ro escape on the morning that Wesley had been arrested. His quick mind also replayed an image of Ro approaching Will to dance at the barbecue after she pretended to be insulted by him. Had there been something between the two of them in the past, he wondered. He filed away this tidbit of information for possible future use.

"Yes, it seems she's exerted her authority over the entire workforce. She's appointed a new overseer and helps make decisions."

"That's good. And how's the crop this year?"

They talked the details of running large plantations, commiserating over the whims of the weather and the sundry chores that comprised a large-scale cotton operation. As they spoke and imbibed, Jean-Luc found himself getting drunker faster than he had anticipated. Too late, he realized that he had miscalculated the size difference between Will and him and that his alcohol-consumption math was off due to the unforeseen potency of the rough-tasting local brew.

"I miss her so much," Will said, during a lull in the conversation created while both men's throats were recovering from a drink of fire water at the same time.

"Deanna?" Jean-Luc asked unnecessarily.

Will stared at his glass blankly. "We only had a few hours together."

Jean-Luc's first thought in response to his drinking partner's melancholy mumbling was a knee-jerk complaint that Beverly and he also had only had a few hours together. He gave voice to his second thought, an even more bitter comparison to elevate his own suffering above that of his companion. "But you had years together before the start of the war. Beverly and I had so little time—"

"It's not like we had years," Will quickly protested, his eyes momentarily flashing anger but just as suddenly returning to their usual light blue serenity. "Things didn't work out for us," he quietly added.

The statement, and the emotions underneath it, piqued Jean-Luc's interest. "What do you mean?"

Will exhaled loudly. "I was courting Deanna a long time ago, when we were young. We were very happy together."

"What happened?"

He hesitated. "I had to make a choice."

"A choice?"

"Between my love life and my career."

"I see," Jean-Luc said, although he did not. "Which career was that?"

Will slid his half-empty glass in circles on the table, watching the cloudy liquid swirl up and down along the sides. "My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps, learn how to run the plantation. For a while, he wanted me to go into politics."

"Politics," Jean-Luc repeated derisively, unable to conceal his disdain, thanks to the moonshine. He filled Will's glass again, then a thought made its way through his increasingly clouded brain. "But, why couldn't you marry Deanna and go into politics? She's from a good family."

Will drank a healthy swig and coughed before he could resume his tale. "She is. But, Lwaxanna was about to remarry and her land would have gone to her husband. My father had another match in mind, one that would be more beneficial politically."

This was news to Jean-Luc. "Such as?"

"My father thought the Ro Plantation contained the most arable land and was best situated for a number of things, closer to town, closer to Mrs. Nechayev," upon seeing his listener's questioning look, he added, "so that he would always know what she was doing. Just in case. And it would make him by far the biggest landowner in the county."

Jean-Luc frowned. "And Miss Ro?"

"Also best situated. A single woman, living alone. He thought surely she wanted the company and assistance of a husband."

"But she didn't?"

Will shook his head. "She told me it was nothing personal. She just didn't want to get married. I never understood her, until the morning I found her in the middle of the road with a young runaway slave girl."

Even as he found Kyle Riker's classification of Miss Ro as a business asset demeaning, one part of the puzzle was becoming clearer to Jean-Luc. Perhaps Will had helped them on that fateful morning out of lingering feelings of friendship toward the former object of his pursuit. He was about to ask more, but Will continue to narrate his history.

"After Miss Ro let me know she wasn't interested, I saw a lot of women casually."

"Oh? A lot of women? Casually?" Jean-Luc raised an eyebrow.

A sly smile crept across Will's face. "Sometimes, very casually," he said knowingly. "There was a married woman named Beata." He shook his head, admiring his own memories. "If her husband ever found out . . . ."

Jean-Luc leaned back in his chair and apprised his first lieutenant. Will's colorful past surprised him, yet he was glad to know that they apparently shared some experiences, even if his were distant, dusty escapades from decades past. His newly felt camaraderie was short-lived, however, dying upon the sharp blade of Will's next sentence.

"Then I tried to court Beverly."

It had never occurred to Jean-Luc that his top officer may once have had a romantic interest in his wife. He recalled that Miss Ro had once said that Beverly was known for turning all men away, but he had never asked himself who those men might be. His half-smile disappeared.

"Beverly?"

Will nodded, lost in thought.

His pensive face alarmed Jean-Luc. He had never contemplated the fact that Will had known his beloved wife longer than he had. "Did you . . . did you get very far with . . . with Beverly?"

"Oh, yes," Will said right away, causing Jean-Luc's eyes and his worry to widen. "I got to the point where she would say 'Goodbye, Mr. Riker,' _before_ she slammed the door in my face."

Jean-Luc processed that, his mind still reeling from the thought of Beverly with this much younger, bigger, more attractive man.

Will saw his captain's distress and, though tempted to tease him longer, admitted, "That was considered pretty good progress by the men who never got past the initial insult and the immediately slammed door."

On one level, Jean-Luc heard what Will was saying, but, in his inebriated state, the jealousy seed had landed in the ground and was trying to take root. The image of Beverly dancing with Will, more than once, at the horrid barbecue—not that long ago!—came unbidden into his mind. Did Will still want Beverly? Was this Will's motive for betraying him to Q? He had to remain composed, he told himself.

"Now that you mention it, I do remember you dancing with Beverly, uh, quite a few times at the barbecue."

"Well, she needed someone to dance with, didn't she?"

 _Touché,_ Jean-Luc thought.

Will suppressed a smile. "Relax, Captain, I don't have designs on your wife. I'm perfectly happy with _my_ wife, thank you very much."

Jean-Luc's shoulders relaxed.

"But, I will tell you one thing, Jean-Luc." His deliberate use of his captain's first name, for the first time in months, had the desired effect. Jean-Luc looked up at him and Will held his gaze captive. "I've known Beverly for years and I know her to be a good woman. She cares about and helps people. I happen to know that she's very sensitive and if anything were to happen in her life to . . . _upset_ her," he squinted menacingly to emphasize the word, "I would be very angry at the person who caused that upset."

Will had threatened a senior officer and he knew it. If his estimation of Captain Picard was correct, he would not face a court martial. Still, as this evening had shown, the captain could be hiding more surprises up his sleeve.

Jean-Luc looked at his first lieutenant, the man he had come to call "Number One," as he had affectionately, for him, named his executive officers on his ships. More than any man in his company, he relied on his Number One to safeguard his life and the lives of the men in his charge. Trusting him was of the utmost importance. He set his glass down loudly on the table and when he spoke, his eyes seared into Will's.

"Will, I plan to devote the rest of my life to making my wife, Beverly, happier than she has ever been. To providing for and taking care of her and her son. I will love her and her alone all of my days, with all of my heart." Jean-Luc punctuated his grand announcement by emptying his glass, then coughing.

Satisfied, for now, Will filled the captain's glass then his own.

Having taken a firm first step down this path, Jean-Luc, in his intoxication, felt compelled to continue.

"I've never been good at relationships with women," he said sadly.

"You've never had a relationship with a woman before?"

"There were women, yes, but relationships . . . ." Suddenly, Jean-Luc was seized with a drunken urge to unburden himself, to bare his lovelorn soul to his brother in arms. "I once knew an exotic woman, Kamala, who was very attractive, but promised to another man. There was a woman, Eline, a kind, wonderful woman, who would have been very happy to marry me and have a family . . . but I wasn't ready." He stopped, suddenly taken back to his youth, when he was younger than Will, and a very different man. He had never been carefree, even as a child, but the closest he had ever come to setting down the weight of the world from his slim shoulders had been his first serious romance. "Jenice," he said aloud.

Riker leaned forward, pouring more liquor into his captain's cup as he did so. "Tell me about Jenice," he coaxed.

At first, Jean-Luc tilted his chair back, as if looking up to the stars through the tent, but the wobbly balance made his alcohol-addled brain dizzy. Four legs on the ground, he reminisced. "We were both very young and very romantic. She was beautiful and—"

"Did you have hair then?" Will interrupted.

Jean-Luc glared at him, then began to laugh. If anyone had happened past the captain's tent—which the men certainly would never do unless invited to the senior officers' area of the camp—he would have heard a loud rumbling noise composed of two voices, one of which had never been heard. As the laughter died down, Jean-Luc wiped tears from his eyes. "Jenice had long blonde hair and mine was," more chuckles bubbled beneath the surface, "light brown. We were both filled with dreams and ideals. We both craved adventure."

"Sounds like a perfect match. What went wrong?"

A loud sigh. "Jenice wanted to pursue adventure on terra firma, but I was drawn to the sea."

"So, you made the choice I did. Career over love."

Jean-Luc nodded. Yes, he had made that choice, over and over, until he had thought it was too late for him to ever feel love again. Over the years, his feelings had grown as calloused as his hands, as wind burnt as his skin at sea. Memories of lost love and lost years clawed at his heart, crowding out the joy of his new marriage.

"How did you do it?" Will asked suddenly.

"Do what?"

"How did you get Beverly interested in you? Everyone in the county has wanted to know since the barbecue at the Trois."

Jean-Luc harrumphed. "The barbecue at which I treated her horribly. I don't know what was especially impressive about that performance."

Will leaned over, eager to pursue his point. "That's just it. You hurt Beverly because you had gotten her to care about you. None of us had ever moved her to have those feelings. We all wanted to know how you did it."

Jean-Luc stared into the cloudy liquid in his glass for long minutes, seeing Beverly for the first time, as she stepped daintily into his sitting room in Marie's teal dress, her intelligent, radiant eyes, her incomparable red hair curled delicately above her long neck, her round bodice, small waist and long skirt that drew his attention as he imagined the slim legs moving underneath it. He sighed. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Will eyes danced, incredulous. The man before him truly appeared befuddled, however, leading Will to conclude that Jean-Luc was, in fact, unaware of the effect he tended to have on women.

"I never—that is, I didn't consciously set out to woo her, at least, not at first. I definitely felt something for her, from . . . ," from the first moment I saw her, he thought, but did but want to share. "From early on, really. But, rather than feel as though I was doing something to persuade her or as though I were in charge where she was concerned, I felt . . . entirely at her mercy."

Will knew that feeling. "Was she cold toward you? Did she fire off a round of sarcasm to hold you at bay?"

He was stunned into momentary silence when Jean-Luc shook his head and answered in the negative. "No, never," the older man said, still not appreciating his feat, despite Will seconding the description that Ro had provided him of Beverly's blistering attacks on the enemy—men who were interested in her.

"What did she do? How did she act?"

Jean-Luc shrugged. "We had a pleasant talk. We ate dinner together," seeing Will's eyebrows fly up, he added, "with Marie and Dalen. She spoke with me, we laughed. She smiled occasionally, she—"

"She smiled? At you?"

"Occasionally."

Surprised, Will smiled at Jean-Luc's deadpan answer, the first he had ever known the man to give.

"At first, I thought," Jean-Luc continued, "that it must have been a purely physical attraction, because she certainly looked very beautiful. But, I had seen beautiful women before. In fact, even after coming to America, all these women came to meet me with Marie." His harsh tone indicated his disapproval. "Some of them were attractive. Nella Darren, Deanna-"

"Wait, Deanna?" It had never occurred to Will that his wife might have considered the captain a potential mate. He nearly choked on his whiskey. ?

Jean-Luc nodded. "Lwaxanna's idea. She seemed intent on pairing me up with either herself or her daughter."

It was Will's turn to feel an odd jealous curiosity at the prospect of Jean-Luc courting his Deanna. "And what did you think of the ladies Troi?" He asked hesitantly.

Missing the chance to return the teasing he had suffered, Jean-Luc shook his head. "I wasn't interested. I came here to manage my brother's estate, with no thought of romance or marriage."

"So, you weren't attracted to them?"

"To be completely honest, I found Lwaxanna's overbearing personality far surpassed her beauty and I thought Deanna a lovely woman, but much too young for me."

Inwardly, Will breathed a sigh of relief. Outwardly, he saw another chance to land a jab. "Beverly's a lot younger than you, too," he could not resist pointing out.

The remark earned him another critical glare from Jean-Luc's captainly visage, but no reprimand. "Of course, I had noticed that. But, she was mature, worldly in her experiences, in a way that Deanna and Nella were not. When we spoke together, we understood each other. We discovered that we agreed about many things and had similar interests."

Will nodded appreciatively, but Jean-Luc felt he had not adequately conveyed the depth of his feelings for Beverly. "But, it was more than just getting along well together. When I looked into her eyes, when I touched her hand, I—I felt a kind of . . . connection, something I'd never felt with any other woman. It created a desire to see her again, to get to know her and, yes, to court her, even, though I didn't admit that to myself at the time. I think I began to fall in love with her the moment I met her."

Seeing Jean-Luc laid bare, caught Will off guard. After months of witnessing his captain's strength—of both mind and body-this glimpse of softness was sharply incongruent. Now that Will was thinking about it, or trying to, as much as his current level of intoxication would permit, the contrast reminded him how little he really knew about his newest neighbor, a mysterious foreigner on whom his life might well depend in the months ahead.

With the clarity that only alcohol can provide, Jean-Luc added, with the awe of discovery, "I haven't realized it before now, but what I felt with Beverly, very early in our friendship, maybe even the moment I met her—I felt that we were meant to be together. I can't explain it, but somehow I felt it."

Will choked as the burning liquid crept like lava down his windpipe. Jean-Luc stood up and slapped him hard on the back until he spit it up. "Thanks," Will nodded.

Taking out his handkerchief, Will wiped his mouth and tried to regain his dignity while Jean-Luc discreetly looked away and sat back down.

Having rescued his Number One from what he saw as near-certain death, Jean-Luc considered that they should stop drinking the illicit moonshine. He removed his hand, which had automatically wrapped around his half-full glass, and was about to say so, when Will found his voice.

"Deanna believes in that and I think she has me believing it now, too."

"In what?"

"That for everyone, there is a perfect mate, someone with whom we share a connection that's more than physical—it's spiritual, emotional, mental. Deanna used to feel it when we were together, before. She always used to say she knew what I was thinking. But she never felt it with anyone afterward."

"Did you experience this as well?"

Will almost took another sip, but remembered his last attempt. "At first, I don't think I did. I was too wrapped up in becoming successful, whatever that meant. I didn't appreciate what I had with Deanna. But, on our wedding day, when we made love—and I've made love to women before—there was something so incredible about being with Deanna. I felt my own pleasure, but also as though I could feel _her_ pleasure. I never felt anything like that before. I really believe she is my soulmate."

 _Soulmate._ Jean-Luc pondered the word as a description of Beverly, but Will interrupted his reverie.

"I think some people are different, like Deanna. They're especially attuned to the feelings of others. My father said Lwaxanna used to be like that, too. She'd walk into a room with her husband and, my father said, it was as though she knew what everyone was thinking."

"Hmm."

"She was—is—very crafty, when she wants to be."

Jean-Luc could believe that.

"And I'll tell you another person who's like that." Will slid to the edge of his chair to bring himself closer to the table and his slouching commanding officer. He gripped Jean-Luc's forearm to get his attention. "Q is and that's a bad thing."

The physical touch and mention of his nemesis more than held Jean-Luc's attention. "Q? What do you mean?" He asked, sobering somewhat.

"My father has dealt with Q for a long time. Q is devious, yes, we all knew that. He watches people, he spies on people. But he's something more."

"He's clever," Jean-Luc admitted.

"He's more than clever. Some people call him a devil."

Jean-Luc had heard Guinan use that very term in describing Q. Although he usually trusted her judgments, he had assumed she was merely using hyperbole to communicate her disgust of the gentleman.

"What makes a man a devil?" Jean-Luc asked.

"First of all, he has no soul. He will do anything to benefit himself and his wife, no matter who he has to hurt to do it. Worse than that, he seems to just _know_ things about people, things that no one has told him."

"Oh? Such as?"

"Such as knowing that Alynna Nechayev's husband was allergic to certain types of seafood."

"What?"

"Alynna didn't know herself. When they went to New Orleans with Q, though, Q ordered a dish in a restaurant that had a 'secret sauce' that contained shrimp. Alynna watched her husband die, right there at the table."

Jean-Luc was not convinced. "That could have been entirely an accident. You said yourself the ingredients of the sauce were secret. How could Q have known?"

"Because he frequented the restaurant and knew the chef."

The scenario still struck Jean-Luc as far-fetched. Will sensed his disbelief and knew he had to provide more support for his assertion.

"Don't you think it odd that Q discovered Wesley Crusher the night he was smuggling fugitives?"

"Odd? It was a risk Wesley took. There were a number of men out there searching for him. You told me yourself that your father had gotten word of escapees traveling north through our area on that day."

"That's true, but what do we know about Wesley, now that we've worked alongside him for months? He has acute hearing and eyesight. He's very intelligent. He's spent enough time in the woods that he can tell when someone or something is near him. He's demonstrated that time and again in the exercises we've done."

"Yes, but—"

"So, how did Q surprise him? How did Q sneak up on Wesley, on horseback, with Wesley not knowing he was there?"

It was a good question, Jean-Luc had to admit. Yet, "I don't think the answer is that Q is some sort of supernatural devil. There must be an explanation. Wesley was distracted or they were talking and didn't hear."

Will saw he was gaining ground.

"What do you know about my mother's death?" He asked.

"Nothing. Only that she died when you were young." Marie had told Jean-Luc that much.

"You never heard how she died?"

"No."

Will sat back, pausing for dramatic effect. "After Mr. Nechayev's untimely passing, Q and my father battled for power, specifically, for a seat in the state legislature to make sure that the views of the large plantation owners became law. So my father and Q ran against each other in a race for the state legislature and Q won. He gave grandstanding speeches in favor of the planters' agenda. He attracted a lot of attention. The only problem was, nobody liked him.

"In the next election, my father defeated him and Q was furious. Vowing revenge, he soon started harassing my mother, Betty. Over a period of about two years, beginning shortly after I was born, Q sent my mother letters—weekly—and he showed up on our property, in our house. He'd come unannounced. Sometimes, he'd turn up and no one knew how he got into the house or into the yard. No one saw him drive up, he had no horse. He would run into her in town, in church. He always said the same things to her. He kept talking about one thing."

Will paused and reached for the bottle, but thought better of it.

Jean-Luc was riveted by Will's intense storytelling. "What was Q saying to her?"

"Over and over, he told her that she was going to fall to her death. She never told anyone, but she was very afraid of heights. She didn't like looking out of a second story window of her own house even. Her greatest fear was falling from a height and dying."

"She never told anyone?"

"No one, but somehow Q knew."

Jean-Luc puzzled over what he was told. He could only surmise that Q had witnessed Betty Riker acting afraid in some situation when her phobia exhibited itself and then deduced the truth. Something about Will's story did not add up. "Why didn't your father put a stop to this torment?"

"She never told him about it. To do so would have meant admitting her fear and she was reluctant to do that. She was ashamed of it and didn't want my father to know."

"If she never told your father, then how do you know this harassment occurred?"

Will lifted his empty glass, then set it back down on the table. "Because my mother kept every one of Q's letters and she wrote everything down in a diary. She confided all her fears and her discomfort in the diary, actually three books, over the course of the two years. She hid the books and the letters and, when they were discovered by the slave who took care of her, she hid them until she gave them to me." Now, he did refill his glass. He took a generous, painful swig. "After two years, Betty couldn't take it anymore. She killed herself."

Jean-Luc's eyes and mouth opened slightly in a silent gasp as he sat back in his chair, seemingly pushed by the shocking news.

Will continued, a heavy sadness added to his voice. "You know how you have to travel six miles out of your way to cross the river to get to Franklin?"

Jean-Luc nodded.

"Well, you didn't always have to. There used to be a bridge on the Franklin Road. You could ride across the river and get there in half the time. My mother was on that bridge. Her mammy, the slave woman who raised her and took care of her as an adult, found her standing on the middle of the bridge looking over the side. With Q.

"It was the middle of a hot afternoon. Betty stood very still and Q was talking to her. He walked away just as Mammy set foot on to the bridge to go to her. That's when she jumped off. Q walked right past Mammy without saying a word. Not stopping when she screamed. He just stared at her, she told me, like his eyes could shoot a hole right through her."

The story troubled Jean-Luc. If true, it revealed a highly disturbing amorality and vengeful streak in his commanding officer. If false, it nevertheless, clearly, had a profound impact on Will. Ruled as he was by reason and logic, Jean-Luc could not help but press the issues that stood out to him. "Why was Q never brought to justice?"

"What justice? He didn't actually kill her. Her diary talks about how he made her insane, too nervous to leave the house on some days. She made an entry on the day she died, saying she couldn't take it any longer." Will stopped suddenly, unable to go on, and took another long drink.

Jean-Luc frowned and persisted. "What did your father do after his wife's death and the discovery of her diaries? I can't imagine him doing nothing."

Will scoffed. "My father doesn't know."

"What?"

"Mammy hid the diaries and the letters from him. She didn't want to give up Betty's secret. After she saw my mother jump, terrified, Mammy ran back to the house and, with our horseman, Edward, staged an accident on the bridge. They sent the carriage plummeting off the bridge and Edward told my father that he jumped off at the last moment. My father had him whipped viciously, but he never told him the truth. When I was eighteen, Mammy gave me the diaries and Edward and she told me how they had seen Q appear out of nowhere to upset my mother and . . . about the bridge."

"But, why wouldn't they tell your father? I don't understand."

Will looked away for a moment. His eyes were dark when he turned his gaze back to Jean-Luc. Will had never shared his mother's story with another soul and Jean-Luc's questioning was making him regret doing so now. "The slaves hate my father. They feel no sense of loyalty to him. Mammy loved my mother and belonged to her. Edward was bought from your brother Robert a long time ago and always resented being separated from his wife."

"His wife?"

"Silva, Miss Ro's house servant. And they were afraid of Q. They thought of him as a devil taking the shape of a man. They didn't want to get him angry at them and they had no desire to be caught in the middle between him and my father."

"Yet they told you?"

Will nodded. "Mammy was old and she wanted me to know the truth before she died. She raised me, too. She said she couldn't leave this Earth until Betty's baby boy had grown up. She wanted to raise me for my mother's sake. She told me the truth and, within the year . . . she passed."

At that point, Will seemed on the verge of crying, more visibly upset by the death of the enslaved woman who had cared for him than by the loss of his own mother. Jean-Luc stood up and stretched, at great risk to his equilibrium in his alcohol-taxed system, so that he could look away and give Will some privacy. He gripped the back of his chair to steady himself and briefly considered lying down on his cot. Will's emotion and his narrative reminded him of his mother, the only member of his family who had understood him and shown him any warmth. The moonshine began to dig up his feelings of loss, but he fought back, grasping the threads of what Will was telling him about Q. It was crucial that he understand Q and, if what Will was relating was true, Q was even more dangerous than Jean-Luc had ever imagined.

He had no reason to doubt that Will believed what he had just told him, incredible as the tale was. As he stood and tried to understand the ramifications of Q's treachery, another hole in the story occurred to him. He turned toward his companion, who sat with his head in his hands. "Will, how old is Q? If he was engaging in the behavior you accuse him of, when you were an infant, then he would have been . . . Wesley's age or younger."

Will lifted his head up, a movement that appeared to cost him great effort. "That's another thing. Q doesn't really age. How old would you say he is—35, 40, 45? He's looked the same for 20 years."

"That's impossible."

"That's the truth."

Jean-Luc shook his head and began to, unsteadily, pace. "I can't believe that Q is some sort of devil. I don't believe in such things."

"Why not?"

"They don't stand up to scientific proof for one thing. Q is plainly a man, just like you or me. I don't doubt that he is a duplicitous man, arrogant, insecure, immature enough to seek revenge on your father." The more he thought about it, the harder it was to swallow Will's tale. "But, surely, not even Q could be as brutal as that. Conducting a long-term campaign of psychological torment? And causing the death of his rival's wife?"

As soon as he said the phrase, Jean-Luc froze. If Q, angry with Kyle Riker, had caused Betty's death to exact his revenge, could he do the same thing to Beverly? _He must never know that Beverly is my wife,_ Jean-Luc immediately thought, his mind sobering up rapidly. He knew that he would also need to act to protect Miss Ro, who had already had some kind of encounter with Q and he would speak to her about it the next time he saw her. But it was thoughts of Beverly and keeping her safe that brought his attention back to the man crumpled in a chair at his table.

Could Will have betrayed him to Q? Jean-Luc did not think so now, listening to the man's history with the odious major, the recounting of which seemed to leave him drained. Will had sufficient reason to hate Q, even though he always acted cordially enough toward him—indeed, his behavior toward Q since they had all become officers of the Confederate Army had bordered on obsequious.

"Will, how are you able to serve with Q? If he did, as you believe, cause your mother's death, why have you socialized with him for all these years?"

Will exhaled and seemed to gain new energy. "My father taught me an adage that he has used more than once with respect to Q: keep your friends close and your enemies closer. He himself has battled against and collaborated with Q for the last twenty-five years. I've just followed his lead. It wasn't difficult.

"As for serving with Q, that was inevitable. I would have been assigned to his regiment because I live in his county. What I did on my own terms was getting myself assigned to your company."

"My company? Why was that important to you?"

Will decided that the moment called for blunt candor. He had already revealed so much of himself that, in his drunkenness, he saw no point in holding any of his remaining thoughts or aspirations back from this man. "Look, Jean-Luc, Captain, I don't know you very well, but I've formed a great respect for you, mostly from your actions on the day that war was declared."

"Oh?" Jean-Luc, straightening out his mind more with each passing minute, was intrigued.

"Very quickly that day, you went from being an old man walking with a limp, clearly in pain, to a decisive . . . ," he struggled to find the word, " _defender_. A defender of Miss Ro's secret, of Beverly's son, of my own complicity in whatever was going on—no, I don't want to know any more about it. Without any hesitation, you volunteered to lead men in this army. Even though you don't know the people and this isn't your cause or your country. You could have sat back comfortably on your estate and missed the whole war."

Will had begun to move around as he spoke, his balance precarious and his voice louder. "And that's not all. You had a great harvest last year—don't try to deny it—it was the talk of the county, so I know you're a superlative businessman and farmer.

"What's more, as a captain in the army, you inspire loyalty in the men and have a greater knowledge of military strategy than any of the other officers in this regiment. I'm putting my life in danger to serve my country. I want to know that my sacrifice will make a difference and, if possible, I'd like to survive this war. My chances of doing so are better if I'm serving with you."

The younger man's confidence flattered Jean-Luc but also burdened him. Will's words reminded him of his responsibility to fight this battle, which Will had reminded him, was not his cause, and keep his men as safe as possible, yet potentially having to order them to their deaths, if necessary. He did not know what to say.

"Will, I—"

Suddenly, Will lurched to one side and stumbled to his feet. Jean-Luc backed up, lost his balance and fell on to his cot. Will's weakened legs buckled and he fell forward, crawling the last few feet to stick his head, at the very least, outside his commanding officer's tent. When his stomach surrendered its contents, the chunky, brown mess flowed away from the tent, carrying, he thought, his dignity with it. Will was saved from further embarrassment, at that time, at least, when he mercifully lost consciousness.

Jean-Luc needed several minutes to orient himself and extricate himself from his cot, which had collapsed around him. Once he had decided on a course of action, it took him much longer than he would have liked to move his arms and legs. Standing, he assessed the sorry situation. A near-empty bottle of homemade rotgut. Two glasses. An upturned chair. His first lieutenant, snoring on the floor at his feet. A whiff of vomit coming from the doorway. Night was falling.

He took his canteen and the bottle to the entrance and emptied both into the stream of retch to push it farther away. Ducking back inside, he tossed both containers aside then gripped Will's ankles and pulled. Given his debilitation and the bigger man's bulk, Jean-Luc did not make it far, but he did move Will's head inside the tent.

Panting from the effort, he sat on his more or less resurrected cot and tried to understand everything he had heard. His head aching, he could not think straight. He lay down and the only coherent thoughts that formed in his mind were that he could trust Will and that he had to protect Beverly, had to protect her from Q. His last thoughts before relinquishing to sleep were pleasant ones of Beverly that became dreams.


	40. Chapter 40

Hello, Everyone, Here's a random, (hopefully) inspiring quote for the day: I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship. ~ Louisa May Alcott

Thank you for reading and reviewing. ~ Liz

* * *

The dense thicket of trees thinned out a bit, so that they could walk upright and see each other. In the moonlight, Ben used the opportunity to admire his wife's figure as she led the group ahead of him. He so rarely had a chance to appreciate her these days, since they were always on the go. When they were conducting passengers on the railroad, Ben remained alert at all times. They all did. One lapse, one distraction, could mean their deaths. The only times he ever thought about his wife were the brief moments when Worf relieved him from guard duty so that he could sleep. The two men took turns standing guard during daylight hours. As he lay down to sleep next to her, Ben's habit was to lightly kiss her forehead, then think about her until he joined her in slumber.

Because she was small and lithe, Jenny usually cleared a path in the thick forests through which they had to sneak under cover of the night. She also had very good hearing and eyesight and, more than once, had been the first to sense danger, whether in the form of a wild animal or an ambitious sheriff. They only had to cross one more hill, then they would be in North Carolina. They should be able to make it to the safety of a friendly farmer's barn before daylight, Ben estimated.

The three of them—Worf, Jenny and he—made a good team, Ben thought. They had traveled so many risky miles together that they trusted each other and practically read each other's minds. Watching his wife duck down suddenly now, Ben knew that she had heard something. The entire group followed suit and crouched low to the ground, perfectly silent.

They waited. They never knew how long these waits would last and their legs cramped, but they dared not reposition themselves for comfort. Behind Ben, at the rear of the group, Worf grew impatient. He shook a bush near his leg, simulating a small animal's movement, to get Ben's attention. When Ben looked back at him, Worf simply raised his eyebrows in question. Alerted to their communication, Jenny turned and answered in their well-developed code: first, she pointed to her ear, then she outlined the shape of a hat around her head. She had heard a person.

Twenty minutes later, the three conductors and eight passengers were still hunkered down without an "all clear" sign or a need for movement away from the perceived threat, which was unusual. Worf signaled for a conference and Jenny slid back to Ben as Worf shifted closer to them.

"We have been stopped a long time. If there was someone out there, he must have passed by now," Worf said in a voice as close to a whisper as he could manage.

Jenny bit her lip. "I'm jus not sure. He sound farther away, but I think I heard some kind of rustlin' jus a few minutes ago."

Worf's eyes seemed to be looking inside his head, a gesture Ben had come to recognize as Worf's way of analyzing a problem. "If we do not move soon, we will not make it to the next station before morning."

Ben had made the same calculation. He nodded in agreement. "We'll have to find another place to sleep."

"There is no safe place to hide between here and the farm," Worf protested.

The men looked to Jenny. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I don't think it's safe to go forward right now."

Ben touched her hand. "It's all right. We'll think of something."

Another twenty minutes passed. Making more noise than he should have, Worf walked, bent over, to the front of the line to speak with Jenny.

"We must start moving again," he said.

She shook her head. "I hear them. It's a distant sound, but I think I hear men in the woods." She pointed northwest, the direction in which they were headed.

Worf paused and listened, but heard nothing. His impatience growing into anger at their stalled progress, he turned to the first two passengers in line, two young men from just across the South Carolina border. "Have you heard the noises of people that she has heard?"

Already terrified, the men were afraid to answer. Worf clearly wanted to move on, but they did not want to risk detection. They did not want to tell Worf that they had heard nothing and fuel his ire, but they hesitated to lie.

Worf interpreted their non-response as meaning they had not heard any suspicious sounds. "We will go on," he decided.

"No!" Ben whispered as loudly as he could. "It's Jenny's call. That's why we have her up front. We agreed to follow her instinct."

Worf was flustered, but he would not be swayed. "I do trust her," he turned back to face Jenny, "but I must make an exception this once."

"It's too dangerous to move on when someone could be in the area," Ben argued.

"It is too dangerous to remain where we are," Worf countered. "Every minute of darkness that we do not move forward will expose us to more daylight hours. We cannot take that risk."

Ben grew heated. "I don't agree. Weighing both risks, I think—"

"I am in charge!" Worf's voice was louder than he had intended.

Jenny put a hand on his arm to shush him. "It's okay," she said to Ben. "We can go on."

"But you said there were people out there," he protested.

Fearful that the arguing would draw unwanted attention to them, vulnerable and immobile in their current position, Jenny decided that being upright and ready to run would be preferable. "It's all right. The Lord willing, we'll get through this here wood."

To avoid further discussion that might give away their location, Jenny turned and began to carefully make her way through the foliage. Passengers timidly followed her, their footsteps muffled by the carpet of pine needles and small twigs, but their movements visible and audible nevertheless. As they proceeded, Jenny and the first few members of the convoy ended up several steps ahead, when one of the women struggled to negotiate the uneven terrain and slowed everyone behind her. That was when it happened.

All of a sudden, explosions shattered the peacefulness of the night. Rifle shots erupted in flashes of light off to their left and it was in one of those bursts of terrible light that Ben saw Jenny fall. He leaned in her direction, but before he could put even one foot down to move to her, he felt strong arms hold him back. He swung around in anger and adrenaline.

"You cannot go down there. We must get the passengers to safety, _now!"_

Worf's words stung Ben, but he understood his duty to the others. Each conductor was responsible for certain passengers. Worf immediately led his back the way they had come, sending them ahead of him while he guarded the rear with his rifle. Ben had his disperse, so that their pursuers would not be able to catch them all. His duty to the others, to keep them alive, was what kept Ben going, when his heart wanted to stop, wanted to run back and lie down with Jenny, even if it meant dying with her. At least, they would be together.

After running till his legs were rubbery and his throats was raw, Ben finally found a place to hide, in a cave behind a waterfall, which he accessed after wading upstream a ways, a trick that he hoped would hide his smell from blood hounds. It was dawn by the time he settled and began to cry. Jenny—his wife, who had been by his side through hard work, beatings, escaping, getting shot and, finally, conducting on the railroad. How could he go on without her? It was four days before Ben returned to the Ro-Picard plantation, still in shock from losing the love of his life. It would be never, he vowed, before he would forgive Worf for getting his Jenny killed. Never.

* * *

Beverly and Jean-Luc sat relaxing on a soft blanket under a shady tree on a sunny, but not overly hot day. The remains of a picnic lunch sat next to them. Jean-Luc slid closer to her and, smiling, said, "Do you know what I like the most about you?"

"What?" Beverly asked playfully.

His face looked so beautiful. His warm hazel eyes under his strong brow, the softness of his smile and his cleft chin. And the way that he looked at her . . . and spoke to her, with his deep voice and alluring accent. "I like that you are my equal in every way. I feel that you are my partner in life, not a weaker being that I must take care of. I believe that you are perfectly capable of doing almost anything that I could do, Beverly Picard."

"That's so funny to hear you say," she replied.

"Oh?"

"Yes. I was just thinking about how I was going to have to take care of you because you would never survive on your own."

"I would never—"

"But don't worry," she smiled comfortably at him, the way she had not smiled at a man in many years. "I've always secretly harbored a fondness for the weaker sex."

"Dr. Crusher?"

The voice calling her name came out of nowhere and Beverly turned away from Jean-Luc to see who it was.

"Dr. Crusher, ma'am? Excuse me, but you fell asleep."

Suddenly, Jean-Luc was gone, replaced, when she opened her eyes, by Sam, who leaned over her in concern.

"Ma'am? I think you best get back to the house now."

The sky behind Sam was dark. The bale of hay on which she was sitting scratched her hand when she tried to get up. She stood and took in the bustling scene before her. Under the light of torches that Mr. Soong had designed and Geordi and Sonia had built, workers ran machinery and transported cotton from the fields to the barn to the wagons that would cart it away. Everyone was busy, everyone had something to do and everyone was cooperating.

"This is the night shift jus startin'." Sam followed her gaze and let her know how late it was.

It had been some time since Beverly had seen the night shift in action, so she decided to stay and assess their efficiency. She moved through the different operations, most of which were performed with Mr. Soong's machinery, inside a newly constructed "barn" for this purpose, and greeted the distinct teams performing each of them. Outside the barn, where the wagons were being loaded, she saw Dathon supervising to make sure the cargo was secure. He talked to the workers in his smooth, calm voice. She watched for a while and he eventually saw her.

"Dr. Crusher!" He called, climbing down from the bed of a wagon. "I want to show you something."

Tired as she felt, she smiled at the man's enthusiasm. Since he had taken over for Mr. Soong, everything had proceeded remarkably smoothly. Beverly had come to enjoy working with Dathon, who, like her, approached problems logically and practically. Where they differed was communication style. Dathon spoke like a teacher or a preacher, a style that Beverly unconsciously tried to emulate as she interacted with people who worked the farming operation.

Dathon led Beverly down a long line of wagons. "See that, Dr. Crusher?"

She looked at the wagons, three of which were fully loaded, with the last two's mounds of cotton growing as two copies of Mr. Soong's newest machine hurled soft white bales upward into them, to be placed in orderly, tight-fitting stacks by workers. She was unsure to what Dathon was referring. "I'm sorry, I don't see—"

"Dr. Crusher, that's five wagons that are going to be full of cotton!" Dathon's eyes were wide. "Remember, we had to buy another wagon and borrow two wagons from Mrs. Riker and Mrs. Troi?"

"Yes." Beverly thought she was beginning to appreciate what he was telling her, but she did not want to presume knowledge on a topic so new to her. "You mean, our harvest will completely fill all of these wagons, all five?"

"Yes!"

"And, by the looks of it, we should be done by tomorrow—maybe by noon?" She wondered if her estimate was accurate.

Dathon smiled in response. "Yes! Yes, we will be harvesting the entire property at one time and we will be getting it to market earlier than anyone in the county. We'll get the best price and there's a bonus for being first. You'll see tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Beverly breathed. She could hardly believe it. Her weeks of hard work—everyone's weeks—were going to pay off tomorrow. She looked at the proud man standing next to her. "All because of your hard work, Dathon." She smiled at him. "This never could have happened without you."

"I never could have done anything without you, Dr. Crusher," Dathon said.

"That's kind of you to say, but I don't think I really did anything."

Dathon's mouth dropped open. "You don't think you did anything to help? Dr. Crusher, don't you walk through the fields every day and say 'good morning' to everyone?"

"Well, yes."

"Didn't you set up water breaks twice a day?"

"That was just common sense. People were suffering from heat exhaustion."

"Didn't you give everyone a medical exam, to make sure everyone was healthy for work?"

"We want our workforce to be healthy so that they can work. You saw how many people needed medical care!"

"And didn't you increase the amount of food at the mid-day meal?"

"People work better when they're not hungry."

"You say all these things as though they were obvious to the world, but no one round here had done them before you. And, always remember, you were the person who sat everyone down and made us talk together and work together. Perhaps, Dr. Crusher, you are a better leader than you believe. Perhaps, that is what we like about you: you act as though we are all equal, all of us and you."

The similarity between Dathon's comment and Jean-Luc's compliment in her dream made Beverly stare at the former, but only for a moment. "Well, I don't—thank you," she blushed.

Dathon bowed, then turned toward the barn. "I should get back to work and you, Dr. Crusher, should retire for the night. You've had a long day and tomorrow will be long as well. As you might say to those doing the manual labor here, everyone needs a good sleep."

She smiled at his use of words she was sure that she had said at one time or another. Before she retired to her bed, she would have to make her daily entry in the journal, write to Jean-Luc, read a little bit, and wash her face, neck and arms, which she knew were covered with dust and dirt. She would sit at the ornate vanity that Marie had moved into Jean-Luc's and her room and brush her long hair, as she did every night. And she would reflect, as she did every night, on her unbelievable good fortune to have found a romance that had changed her life so dramatically. Behind her literal reflection in the mirror, she would behold the lush furnishing of Jean-Luc's bedroom—thick drapes, large four-poster bed, the richly upholstered divan, his custom-made wardrobe. It was perfect but for one thing: Jean-Luc was not there. Their bed would be comfortable, but it would not be the same. She would sleep well, but chastely. She would not want for any material item, but she would miss him terribly, and, tonight, she would wonder if he truly believed the words he spoke to her in her dream, if the real Jean-Luc considered her his very capable equal.

Sadness tingeing her smile, Beverly bade Dathon good night and strolled around the barn for one last scrutiny of the night shift's progress before turning in.


	41. Chapter 41

Directly or—mostly—indirectly, the war had created a tantalizing amount of news and gossip for the gentile ladies of the Ladies Auxiliary Sewing Circle, which met, for the first time in a long time, at the opulent DeLancie residence. Lwaxanna found herself coyly cataloging the various paintings and sculptures that, in her mind, gaudily decorated Vash's home. Alynna coyly observed Lwaxanna doing so.

Despite Deanna being present herself, Lwaxanna had to announce her impending grandmotherhood. Cheers and well wishes preceded iced tea toasts and the sharing of cake and pecan pie.

Marie's reappearance at the sewing circle, after her self-imposed exile following Jean-Luc's embarrassing conduct with respect to Beverly and Miss Ro, was well-received, at least at first.

"Marie, dear, it's so good to have you back," Lwaxanna said, in between forkfuls of pie. "We missed you, though of course I can't blame you for wanting to hide in shame at the horrible behavior of your brother-in-law."

"At least you're not related by blood," Kate offered.

"Well," Marie said, practicing diplomacy. "I missed you all, too." She held up an outfit she was making for Deanna's baby.

"Oh, isn't that just darling?" Vash dripped. Noticing that the garment was half-done, she added, "You've gotten quite far with that, Marie. How long have you known about Deanna's condition?"

Marie glanced at Deanna for support, then took the plunge. "I was among the first to know because I heard it from Deanna's midwife, Beverly Crusher."

Automatic gasps rose from the group like steam over a swamp in August. The treasonous name had not been spoken since the infamous woman's expulsion. Now, all of a sudden, _two_ refined ladies of the sewing circle were associating with her.

"Oh, my," Lwaxanna said.

"You do know that we expelled Mrs. Crusher from our circle for treason, don't you?" Alynna asked.

"How interesting," Vash commented.

Nella started, which caused her spool of yarn to roll off her lap.

"You do know, don't you, that you have other options?" Kate turned to Deanna. "I'm a midwife myself and I've recently begun working with Dr. Quaice. I'm more than qualified to deliver your baby."

"What?" Lwaxanna, again, was the first to find words after a shocking pronouncement. "Kate, you're _working?"_

"It's been a long time since you served as a midwife, hasn't it, Kate?" Alynna aimed a sideways glance at Vash.

Vash stopped stitching. "I'm sure I don't know what to say. Kate, what on earth possessed you to become a midwife?" Alynna and she had, in fact, discovered the financial reasons behind Kate's re-joining the workforce with only minimal digging a few days earlier. However, Vash thought it would be more embarrassing for Kate if she had to explain her diminished circumstances herself, rather than have her friends describe them.

To Vash and Alynna's disappointment, however, Kate appeared unbothered by her recent impoverishment. "Well, things hadn't worked out exactly as I had planned and I was on the verge of running out of money to live on."

"Oh, my heavens!" Lwaxanna exclaimed.

"Really?" Nella asked. "You poor thing!"

Alynna merely continued to sew, feigning neither surprise nor sympathy.

Vash, however, had been looking forward to putting on a show. "My goodness, I had absolutely no idea. How horrible for you, Kate. What was it that didn't work out for you?"

This insult flew past Kate's level of tolerance. She had been prepared to be shamed for being near-broke, but not to have her love life—or lack thereof—aired in public. Before she could muster a response, Vash attacked again.

"Oh, if only you could have re-married. A new husband could've saved you from this terrible fate."

Deanna tried to soften the blow. "I don't know that it's such a terrible thing, to deliver ba—"

"Of course it is, dear," Lwaxanna interrupted. "Having to get all messy and sweaty, not to mention all the poor babies who don't survive."

Nella gasped.

"Mother!" Deanna was shocked that Lwaxanna could mention such a horror in front of her expectant daughter.

"And to think," Vash continued, "we had a very eligible bachelor move into our county not too long ago, too." She looked at Marie and everyone followed suit, whether they wanted to or not.

Hoping to squash any further negative gossip about her brother-in-law, Marie tried to end the conversation. "Kate, I'm sure we all wish you well in this new chapter of your life and if you need anything, please don't even hesitate-"

"Wait a second," Vash parried. "What about Kyle Riker? Weren't the two of you an item some time ago?"

That comment drew Alynna's full attention. She set down the scarf she was knitting for the Confederate soldiers. Everyone else froze. A gauntlet had been thrown and no one could pick it up but Kate.

The woman at the center of everyone's attention evenly finished a stitch, stuck her needle into the unfinished hem of the dress she was mending and neatly packed the garment into her sewing bag. "All right, Vash, since you seem so insistent on bullying me, I'll tell you that Senator Riker and I are no longer an 'item.' He does not wish to marry me and I know that for a fact because we discussed it. If we had married, I wouldn't have any financial difficulties and I wouldn't have had to go begging to Beverly Crusher for a place to live." More gasps and stunned-into-paralysis faces greeted that announcement. "I'm sure Vash would have gotten around to telling you eventually that I was evicted from my house by my late husband's family and had to seek lodging from Dr. Quaice and, eventually, from Beverly."

"From the traitor?" Nella's tone indicated her disapproval.

"Yes, Nella, but only after I asked around town about renting a room in a house and was either turned down or unable to afford the price."

"How much is Beverly charging you, if you don't mind my asking?" Alynna asked.

Kate sighed. "Actually, she's not charging me anything." She took stock of the rapt faces, wondering about the character of the different women in the sewing circle. Had they always been a judgmental mix of predators and gossips she wondered, and she had simply not noticed? Or had she been complicit in their cruelty and not realized it? "Beverly told me I would be doing her a favor by keeping an eye on her house and her things by living there."

Uncomfortably surprised at hearing something she did not know, Vash was the first to find her voice. "Is Beverly not living there herself?"

"No."

"Where is she living?"

"With me." Six heads swiveled in Marie's direction and the Frenchwoman smiled sweetly in response. "I've been quite lonely since Jean-Luc left and Beverly and I have always been friends. We get along so well and enjoy each other's company."

Lwaxanna set down her sewing and leaned back against the cushions of her chair. "Oh, my heavens, Marie, dear, what were you thinking?"

Marie was determined to maintain a cheerful outlook and appearance. "Why, Lwaxanna, I just told you. Beverly and I are good friends and enjoy spending time together. This will be a good change for her and a great comfort to me."

"But, she's a traitor!" Nella had stopped stitching as well.

"Nella, Beverly is not a traitor," Marie said calmly.

"How can we be sure? How can we trust her?" Alynna asked pointedly.

"We've known Beverly for years. All of us have," Marie answered.

Vash scoffed and shifted on her sofa, tucking her legs underneath her to be comfortable for the juicy skirmish coming up. "Are you forgetting that her son was caught red-handed smuggling fugitive slaves? Marie, my husband found her son helping _two slaves_ _escape!_ He's a criminal."

"That was Wesley, not Beverly," Marie said.

"And Wesley is serving in the Confederate Army now," Deanna noted. "He's serving his country."

"By force," Vash added.

"He's still serving," Deanna retorted.

"I haven't talked politics with Beverly," Kate inserted. "All I know is that she is a kind woman who has helped me out at a difficult time in my life."

Not wanting to appear _un_ kind, Vash, Lwaxanna and Alynna quickly offered assistance.

Nella demurred, then made her own announcement. "Kate, if you'd rather not live in a traitor's house, you're welcome to live in Reg's and my house, because I'll be leaving."

"Leaving?" Everyone asked.

"Yes, Keiko O'Brien and I—"

"The _Japanese_ woman?" Lwaxanna was perhaps even more horrified.

"—have decided that we're going to follow the army. We're leaving in two weeks' time to go to Reg and Miles's camp in South Carolina. Reg sent me a detailed map on how to get there."

"Oh, good Lord!" Lwaxanna exclaimed.

"Nella, dear," Alynna said calmly, "maybe you should think this plan through more. Only poor women, like Mrs. O'Brien, follow an army. You certainly have the means to stay in your new house. You're just making this decision in the excitement of being newly wed."

"I should say so!" Vash agreed. "They live absolutely barbarically, in tents in the woods. With bugs and animals, in all kinds of weather, rain and heat. From my husband's letters, it sounds completely dreadful. You can't bring clothes with you or jewelry or anything a lady needs."

Nella smiled and seemed to be looking past the women, the room and the house. "I think it sounds perfectly wonderful. Mrs. O'Brien is bringing a large tent for the family, including her husband. Since Mr. O'Brien and Reg are tent mates now, Reg and I will get to share his tent."

"The tents are tiny, by the way."

"Isn't it dangerous?" Lwaxanna asked.

Nella shook her head. "Right now, the regiment isn't in any danger. They're training and drilling and that sort of thing."

"But they won't spend the entire war practicing in the Carolinas. Eventually, they'll be sent into battle," Alynna said, with raised eyebrows, to indicate the seriousness of that eventuality, as though it were not obvious.

Nella nodded. "I know. But the women always stay far enough away that we're not in any real danger."

Alynna continued, "I don't know how you can be sure that you won't be in any danger. Wars are unpredictable. Battle lines can be drawn and re-drawn."

"There's no question that it's perilous," Lwaxanna added. "Nella, you simply have to reconsider. How will you even get there? That trip alone could be deadly!"

"You're not traveling by yourself, I hope." Marie sounded worried.

"Two women alone on the highways? That would just be suicide!" Vash over-emoted.

The younger woman would not be swayed. "We're only travelling to eastern Anderson District. I have relatives there and my cousin has said he'll drive us the rest of the way. I have my husband's wagon and Mrs. O'Brien has a shotgun."

"My stars, what is going on in this world?" Lwaxanna asked no one in particular.

Kate, however, answered. "Well, for one thing, between expulsions and people leaving, you're going to have a much smaller sewing circle."

Deanna had stopped listening to the bickering, so distracted was she by an entirely new and provocative idea. She had not known that following the army was an option for wives. Deanna idly held the baby booties she was knitting. If she could be with Will again . . . . The living conditions, she had to admit, did sound gruesome and she had her baby to think about. If only there was some way to ensure that her baby would be safe—Beverly! What if Beverly and she both went to follow the army? She would feel much safer with her friend beside her.

Much ado was made about and much squawking followed Kate's picking up her bag and leaving the group. Deanna, however, sat mesmerized by the idea of being in Will's strong arms and feeling his hand on her rounded belly, feeling the movement of who she secretly knew to be his first son.


	42. Chapter 42

Jean-Luc was impressed by the discipline of the newly, hastily, formed Confederate Army. Most of the men were very young, with no military experience. However, they adapted quickly to following orders and learned the basic skills of marching, firing and camping that they would need once they got underway. Of course, they were not facing any of the deprivation that potentially lay ahead—lack of food or water, insufficient shelter from the elements—nor had they been under enemy fire. But these young men were motivated and passionate about protecting their homeland and fighting for their cause. Even as he found their so-called cause abhorrent, Jean-Luc found himself admiring their work ethic.

Equally impressive was Will Riker's growth as an officer. A quick learner and a natural leader, Will ran the men through increasingly rigorous drills daily, with an occasional suggestion but never a complaint. He could be a tough taskmaster, causing the men to curse him—Jean-Luc had overheard more than once—and to straighten when he rode up. At the end of the day, however Will could sit with the men and tell stories, share a drink and even play music, joining the banjo and fiddle playing on his harmonica. Their shared indiscretion aside, Jean-Luc had never seen Will over-indulge in alcohol.

Convinced that his company was shaping up well, Jean-Luc dismissed them early then strode back to his refuge, his tent. An hour earlier, Will had handed him his mail and he could not wait to read Beverly's latest letter. A creature of habit, he settled at his desk in the manner that always did: removing his jacket and hanging it on his coat rack; pouring himself a glass of water from his canteen, drinking it, then refilling it; sitting down and checking through his letters; then opening each with his gold letter opener. He then sorted them in the order in which he would read them. Q's communiqués were always first and Beverly's letters were always last. On this pleasantly warm September evening, the only correspondence he had was a brief note from the former and a fragrant envelope from the latter.

Q wrote to him with instructions for the following week's journey north. Every direction was straightforward and unsurprising. Jean-Luc would carry out the new orders first thing in the morning. He picked up Beverly's letter, closed his eyes and inhaled her perfume. He had hated having to write to her to tell her that they were being sent north and Q had denied them leave before they departed. Certain she was worried about Wesley's safety, he dreaded reading her response, but the rest of her letter would contain her lovely words describing her life and her feelings for him, which sustained him as much as the food he ate.

 _My darling husband,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well. Things here are busy, but all in a positive way. With Mr. Soong's new machinery and our new foreman/manager, the work has gone smoothly and swiftly._ _Since my last letter, the harvest is all in_ _and much larger than last year! In fact,_ _if Robert's meticulous records can be trusted, we had a record year. I'm quite pleased with our expanded operations and improved results and I'm sure you will be, too._

 _Marie is well. She recently resumed gardening, a hobby that she said she enjoyed in France, but had abandoned here in our very different climate. Her flowers brightened up the front lawn throughout the summer. She's also resumed attendance at the sewing circle, after taking a short break. Don't be surprised if she sends you something that she made._

 _The big news causing quite a little scandal in our small county is that some of the local women have decided to join their menfolk in the Confederate Army. Surely, you've heard of this custom of families following soldiers at war. Although I've obviously never done it, I have heard that they set up camp, cook meals, etc. and follow the army around. Mrs. O'Brien, Mrs. Barclay and Mrs. Crusher have all set out to meet up with your company in South Carolina, with the intent to stay with their husbands, or in Mrs. Crusher's case, her son. People here seem to be divided as to the wisdom of this relocation. Everyone knows that Mrs. O'Brien doesn't have any means of support with her husband away, so it's a matter of survival for her children and her. It seems like Mrs. Barclay just misses her husband and Mrs. Crusher just misses her son. I expect they will be arriving at your camp in about a week's time._

 _I hope that you and your men are not overly affected by the heat or the Autumn rains. Our weather here has been—_

In an ironic coincidence that he would later recall as among the most pronounced in his life, Jean-Luc threw the letter on his desk in anger and was at that very moment interrupted by a knock on the wood frame of his tent that turned out to be Will Riker, come to inform him that the women had arrived. He stood, roughly tugged his uniform jacket on and walked out, ready to communicate to the distaff intruders in no uncertain terms what he thought of their presence in his camp.

Amid the clatter and cheers surrounding the arrival of the O'Brien family and Nella Barclay, Jean-Luc noticed the children. He had not deduced from Beverly's letter that children would be accompanying their mother, although, in hindsight, he realized that he probably should have. Passed around the men of his company like objects of curiosity and wonder, the two older children giggled and screamed, in what he assumed, but did not know for certain, was happiness. Miles O'Brien held his youngest child, showing him off. _Merde._ This was a military installation, he thought, not a nursery.

Clearly, the moment of the happy reunions was not the time to tell the women that they would have to leave. He exhaled loudly, angrily. At his elbow, Will discreetly looked at his superior officer and noted his ill mood.

In his short time in the military, Will had learned many things, paramount among them the importance of knowing his commanding officer's mood at all times. Typically, Jean-Luc Picard's temperament ranged from mildly annoyed to mildly amused, primarily settling at serious. He veered toward greatly annoyed when Q imposed an arbitrary rule on him and forayed into contentment after receiving a letter from his wife, his real wife. Like the terrain that they covered and the drills they practiced, Will had come to read his captain's emotions like a map.

But, when a greatly annoyed Jean-Luc Picard turned from the unwelcome children in their midst to catch sight of Beverly Crusher hugging Wesley, Will sensed his mood change like the drop in barometric pressure right before a thunderstorm.

Jean-Luc caught his breath, mesmerized. Having not laid eyes on Beverly for some five months, he feasted on the sight of her. His anger at this introduction of families into his company's encampment was violently shoved to the back of his mind by the excitement he felt at seeing Beverly. Her plain dress, her sculpted face and even her braided hair looked dusty from travelling the dirt roads, but she was still incredibly beautiful. As he watched her step back from her son, but eye him closely and keep her hands on his arms, squeezing, he was sure, to evaluate his physical health, perhaps how well he had been eating, he imagined her doing the same to him. How her hands would feel on his biceps. How her stunning blue eyes would look at him with love and concern, as no other woman had ever—

Suddenly, Jean-Luc heard Will conspicuously clearing his throat. "Sir, I'm sure I don't need to remind you that you're married to Ro Laren."

Will was right. Jean-Luc immediately tore his eyes away from Beverly and nodded at his first lieutenant. "I have to admit, I'm surprised to see the women and children here. This is some kind of American custom?"

It was Will's turn to nod. "Some wives and families follow the army—keeping at a safe distance from any fighting—because they have no means of support when their men leave."

Preposterous, Jean-Luc thought. A full-scale enemy attack in all likelihood would be known of in advance, giving the army time to prepare and effect the women's relocation to a safe distance, but a skirmish could erupt at any time. Quite apart from enemy fire, there were dangers and difficulties associated with living in tents and tramping across the country. Illness, injuries from rugged terrain, fatigue—unbidden, his mind zeroed in on the potential need for a doctor and began to justify the presence of the woman who stood not 100 yards from him.

Will saw where Jean-Luc's attention had again wandered. "Captain, I'm going over there to pay my respects to Mrs. Crusher. Is there any message you'd like me to convey?"

Staring openly, Jean-Luc thought as quickly and strategically as he was known to do in battle. "Yes. Please offer your tent to Mrs. Crusher for the duration of her visit. You'll bunk with me for . . . for the time being. Explain to her about lights out." He hoped that Will was astute enough to catch the subtext behind his maneuvering.

The taller man's smile suggested that he had. "Very good, sir. I'll be happy to communicate that."

A crunch of leaves alerted Beverly to someone approaching and she looked up to see Will's broad frame striding downhill toward Wesley's tent on the edge of the encampment.

"Mrs. Crusher," he called out, beaming. "It's so good to see you. I'm sure Wesley is happy to have you here." He looked to the younger man, who did indeed appear happier than he had in months. "How was your journey?"

"Long," Beverly exhaled. "But uneventful, thank goodness."

Will nodded, pleased. "How is Deanna?" He decided not to prolong the pleasantries when he was dying to hear word of his expectant wife.

"She's wonderful." Beverly's sincere smile and warm tone of voice immediately put him at ease. "Both the baby and she are healthy and she's very happy. We've been knitting and sewing baby clothes. Which reminds me . . . ," she bent down and opened the smaller of the two cloth bags at her feet, "she gave me this for you."

Will took the soft package from her, holding it as carefully as if it were a fragile family heirloom. "I'm very much obliged to you for delivering this, ma'am."

Beverly smiled, both happy to deliver the scarf Deanna had knitted him, and amused at the thought that, as Jean-Luc had promised, Will may never need it. "No trouble at all. Deanna had wanted to come with me—in fact, it was her idea in the first place and she invited me—but I was concerned about the baby's safety, with all the bumpy roads and . . . ," she trailed off, not wanting to say out loud the worst fate that could await any of them. "Anyway, Lwaxanna 'absolutely forbade' her to come."

Will's smile faded. He would have loved to have seen Deanna, but he knew Beverly and Lwaxanna were right. "Of course," he said. "I'm glad that Deanna had you to take care of her." A frightening thought occurred to him. "Now that you're here, who will . . . ."

She put a hand on his arm. "Don't worry. There's a new midwife who is very capable. I left her in good hands."

Will remained worried, but he trusted Beverly's judgment. He nodded at Wesley. "I bet you're glad to see your mother."

"Yeah, I am," Wesley answered.

Will shifted slightly as the two men conversed, which allowed Beverly to look past him and see Captain Jean-Luc Picard, standing on top of a hill, in front of a large tent. She had not had a chance to study him from this perspective since he had sat reading to her in her yard on the steamy early days of last year's summer. From her angle, she stared at his profile, so serious and stern, as he watched the new arrivals and the men of his company, his sharp eyes moving through the camp. She stood transfixed, seeing the man she loved as she never had before, in a position that must have been so much a part of who he was, a military leader. His perfectly pressed, new-looking gray uniform, she thought, emphasized his physique and augmented the air of authority that he would have had even without it. Although his posture and his face suggested that he was tense, Jean-Luc looked, to Beverly, as though he was right where he belonged.

From his elevated perch, he swept along the open field, full of squat dark tents, dotted with fire pits, flooded by soldiers half-dressed in their own uniforms, his eyes finally coming to rest, as though after a long, desperate search, on the woman he loved. When their eyes met, both realized they would be unable to maintain the façade of disinterest. Their connection immediately renewed, she saw his cheeks soften and his eyes light up and he saw her lips part slightly as her eyes shone hope. He watched as her chest grew fuller from her deeper breaths and she thought that he seemed to be leaning toward her, as though he could brush against her despite the distance between them. The months apart, the physical aching, the gnawing question of each other's devotion that had wracked their emotions—an unavoidable insecurity sown by their separation—all melted away as they gazed into each other's eyes as though drinking a life-giving elixir. Feeling safe, yet afraid, Beverly looked away first, toward the rest of the camp, then, worried that someone might notice her blush, back toward Wesley, who did notice.

"Mom . . . ."

Will saw the chance to deliver his message. "Mrs. Crusher, the captain suggested that you stay in my tent while you're here and he and I will bunk together in his."

"Oh?"

"My tent is more spacious than the men's tents," they both looked to Wesley's narrow canvas contraption, allegedly big enough for two, "and you really couldn't share one with your son."

"Oh, no."

"So, feel free to bring your belongings up to my tent," he turned and pointed, "it's the one on the right, next to the captain's tent. Oh, and the captain wanted me to let you know that we have a strictly enforced policy of lights out at 2100 hours, or nine o'clock. No one is allowed out after nine." Will gave just enough emphasize to the last word to let Beverly know exactly when she should expect to see Jean-Luc in her temporary residence.

"Thank you, um, commander?"

Will smiled. "It's lieutenant, ma'am. I believe commander is a naval rank."

"Oh, of course. I suppose I'll have to get used to things like rank now."

Wesley smirked, "Don't worry. It's pretty easy, Mom, when you live with it every day."

 _Every day,_ Beverly thought, a current of excitement rushing through her veins, _I'll be here every day, with him._


	43. Chapter 43

Hello Faithful Readers, this chapter is rated M, very M. I hope you enjoy it and I would love to hear from you. Much happiness, Liz

* * *

Beverly cautiously undressed in Will's tent. She slipped on the cream-colored silk dressing gown, a sleeveless shift that fell to her ankles, that Marie had given her. One of Marie's own belongings, from Paris. Beverly had seen the sadness in Marie's eyes as she passed down an item she clearly thought she would have no need of in the future. Beverly packed her clothing in her trunk and loosened and brushed her hair. In the hot, humid air, she felt a shiver race through her body, longing for Jean-Luc to come, for him to touch her. She stood and waited in the small space, next to the few items of furniture that fit in the first lieutenant's tall but small tent—a cot, a writing table, her trunk and a straight backed chair. Beverly faced the door of the tent, willing it to open, feeling early twitches of arousal, in her breasts and her womanhood.

Jean-Luc waited twenty minutes after lights out was called to ensure no one would be about to see him. Every second was agony as the fire within him burned for her. A light rain misted his face when he peeked out of his tent at exactly 2100 hours. By the time he stepped out, it was pouring. The sound of the downpour, like a legion of horses, was louder than his footsteps, even as he dashed through puddles the short distance to Riker's tent. Without knocking, he opened the flap and stepped in. Even in the dark, he could tell she was standing up between the cot and the writing table. He could make out her shape, but not any details. His heart pounded.

Beverly felt her heart pound when the tent opened and Jean-Luc rushed in. He stopped for a moment, as if unsure, then stripped off his wet jacket and boots, feeling, rather than seeing, her eyes on him, and went to her.

"How I've missed you," he said, standing in front of her, unaware that his proximity made her knees want to crumble. At this close distance, he saw her smoldering eyes, her red hair flowing wildly, her cream-colored gown and, most unexpectedly, her bare arms—a beauty that stirred him in a passionate and a possessive way. Beverly was stunningly beautiful and she was his wife, _his._

Trembling, she stepped closer and reached out to touch his face. He sighed as she ran her hand along his cheek, to the cleft in his chin, making him close his eyes to savor her touch. "How I love you," she whispered.

He grabbed her to him, unable to bear the inches that separated them. Holding her and kissing her for the first time in five months, he felt dizzy. She was so soft, so sensual, just as he remembered her and more, her floral scent, the familiar perfume of her letters that had teased his lonely libido, now drifted into his nostrils, fueling a desire that would soon be sated. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders and her hands settled on the back of his neck. She added some pressure to urge him on and he was lost in the welcoming warmth of her mouth. A hope of all things wonderful, light and right was reawakened in him.

Beverly felt her knees grow weak and her head begin to spin. Jean-Luc's strong arms electrified her body where he held her and his powerful, musky scent intoxicated her, a potent reminder of the seduction on her wedding day. She felt as though he remembered exactly how they had kissed, exactly how to stroke her tongue and touch the insides of her cheeks. The intimacy exhilarated her and carried her away to a world where no one existed but the two of them and they lived there only to make love.

He abruptly stopped kissing her and moved backward, away from her, leaving her suddenly feeling cold and alone.

"What's wrong?" Beverly asked.

"What in the world were you thinking in coming here?" Somehow, in the midst of his passion, Jean-Luc remembered that all of this was wrong, was not to be.

He spoke quietly, but she heard his anger and it surprised and hurt her. Was he not happy to see her? Did he not feel the same thrill that she did at being together? "I . . . I thought I could be with you. Everyone knows how devoted I am to my son—and I was worried about him—so it's the perfect cover. This time with my husband at war, I don't have a small child keeping me at home. I don't have anything at home—I can't practice medicine, I'm renting my house and the harvest is over. This is where I want to be and where I should be."

He shook his head. "Beverly, we're leaving in a week's time. We're going to join the fighting in northern Virginia. We're in a war. It won't be safe for you."

"It won't be safe for Wesley or you either."

"That is completely different."

"Is it?"

"Yes, we are trained soldiers, who—"

"Wesley isn't a trained soldier."

"He wasn't, but he is now." Jean-Luc paused to take a breath and the anger flowed out of him, sent downstream by pride, as he thought of his stepson's progress and potential. "Beverly, Wesley has done an outstanding job of learning and implementing everything that I've taught him. He really is an extraordinary young man."

The compliment brought tears to Beverly's eyes and helped diffuse her own ire.

"Jean-Luc, I may be able to help you. If anyone gets shot or hurt, I might be able to help."

Half-persuaded by her offer, he indulged in fantasies of her staying with Wesley and him, under cover of being a nurse. He saw the three of them deserting, running off to the north, to his friends in New York. From there, they could board a steamship for Europe and return to his home in Labarre. Leave behind the burgeoning conflict and the filthy American institution of slavery. Beverly could see where he had grown up and live in the luxury and comfort of the old stone house. He stopped himself—this was utter madness.

"Beverly, I don't think, I don't, I—" Trapped between his desire and his lifelong commitment to practicality and good sense, Jean-Luc felt that he could not tell her of his wild dreams, nor could he admonish her for her judgment, which had, much to his excitement, brought her here, with him now, alone and wearing a very alluring gown.

"What's wrong? Are you all right?" She reached out and grabbed his upper arms, the doctor in her ready to help steady him, in case the ailment affecting his speech would next topple his balance.

He did in fact feel less secure on his feet, but that was due entirely to her holding him. "I'm fine. I just, I just find it difficult to think clearly when you're this close to me."

Beverly relaxed, all medical worry evaporated. "Then maybe you shouldn't be thinking." He first sensed her smile, then felt it, as she leaned in to lightly kiss his lips. As his cheek brushed against hers, he felt tears.

He broke away to whisper, "I love you."

Their lips met again and Beverly's worries faded away in the desire he stoked in her. The force of their shared craving for each other tore down the walls the world had built between them as they hungrily touched each other. This time, both knew there would be no stopping

Jean-Luc slid his hands around her back, along her dressing gown, pleasantly surprised to find a smooth, silky material. He felt her shiver as his hands slowly crept down her bare arms. Her lovely face flamed with desire, her eyes never left his. All his dreams, all the pictures of her he conjured when alone, paled before the real woman, standing in front of him in the flesh, her glowing alabaster flesh, visible even in the darkness.

Jean-Luc's touches were light, but they created sparks of electricity wherever he touched her. In the darkness, Beverly could just make out the contours of his face as she ran her hand along his cheek, stopping at the adorable cleft in his chin. He tightened his grip on her body and in his embrace she felt a reassurance that she had needed but never put into words—he was real, he did exist and he did love her.

Their kisses spread a familiar, yet still new warmth through their bodies. As their tongues slid along each other, sensations multiplied, tingling, radiating and pulling them physically closer as their desire bloomed. Jean-Luc kissed her ardently and Beverly wished time could simply stop and stand still in that moment, with their smoldering, never-ending kiss re-igniting her body. She wanted to stay like that forever, until . . . The flames within her grew, demanding more from him than just his mouth.

Having lost the capacity for speech, her arms tugged at his shirt, pulling it out of his pants, then fumbling with the buttons. As if oblivious to her struggles, his arms slid along her satiny nightgown, from her back, down her sides, then up her flat abdomen to her breasts.

"Ah," she cried, as he gently began kneading them.

Seeing Beverly's arousal grow, Jean-Luc felt his own body react and his need for her pulse through him. Holding her tightly, he stepped forward, pushing her back, his lips never leaving hers, her never wanting them to leave. She complied with his movement, until she reached the writing desk. As she leaned on the edge, he pressed himself against her and, as she felt his rock hard manhood against her, a rush of excitement overcame her and her womanly juices began to flow. He squeezed her round bottom, and her legs tensed from the enhanced sensation; his hips bucked against her, beyond his control. His hands slid around to caress her wanting nipples, which made her cry out, "Aaaaaah." She grasped his shoulders to keep his hands there and to steady herself as she felt herself falling backward.

He coaxed her into a seated position on the desk and reclaimed her mouth with a passionate kiss, his tongue touching hers, furiously devouring. Unable to think straight as Jean-Luc's mouth left hers and sucked her nipple into his mouth, through the silky gown, Beverly arched her back and gasped, her hand reaching out to push the back of his head into her. Thrilled at her response, he stayed in her bosom, suckling and pulling first one wanting bud, then the other. Her heavy breathing and her slender legs brushing against his hips made him even harder than he had been. She felt his hands hot on her breasts even as his body pulled away, causing her a brief alarm.

He pulled the straight wooden chair up to the desk and sat in front of her. Beverly wondered what in the world he was doing, but he did not leave her guessing for long. He slowly slid her nightgown up her ankles, then up her calves, until it rested on her knees. In the darkness, she thought she could make out his smile as his gaze lingered on her bare legs and his hands took hold of her feet. He held her narrow feet firmly and began to massage them, his strong fingers pressing circles into her muscles. He ran his closed lips along, then planted kisses on the sensitive skin of her arches. She never dreamed that someone touching her foot could be so erotic. Her sex tensed with need and her legs twitched from each tantalizing caress. Jean-Luc enjoyed witnessing the writhing his ministrations caused, which only urged him on. His lips trailed from her ankle up her shapely calf, creating sensations that made Beverly's hips, waist and breasts convulse. He reached up and pinched the pert rosebuds that begged for his attention.

"Aaah," Beverly moaned as he licked the back of her knee. She felt her gown slide upward as Jean-Luc's lips did, along her thigh. His tongue on her thigh heightened the pleasure that had begun at her ankle and made her squirm on the desk. Watching him, his soft face and closed eyes, she reached out and stroked the top of his head, eliciting a moan from him. The wind whipped the sides of the tent, as her desire swirled within. How had she ever lived her life without this man kissing and licking the inside of her thighs, she wondered, and how would she ever survive if he were to stop. As his mouth tended one leg, his fingers lightly trailed up the other, teasing, and she panted, unable to control her breathing and stunned to find herself on the brink of ecstasy. Somehow, in the midst of being carried away, she realized that his face was inching ever closer to her—

"Jean-Luc!" She frantically straightened and pushed the material of her gown down to cover her crotch.

He stopped immediately and looked up at her, worried. "What?"

"My . . . you . . . are you . . . ?" Beverly simply lacked the vocabulary to ask him what he was doing kissing and licking her thighs, only inches away from the most private part of her body.

At first, Jean-Luc was stunned. He had never known a woman who did not like—ah, he realized something about his new wife.

He stood and gently kissed her lips. She saw his mouth curve upward in a smile. "You Americans."

"What?"

"The people who wrote _The Scarlet Letter_ ," he said, amused. "You have a very different view of lovemaking."

"We do?"

He kissed her again, cupping her face in his hands. "Do you trust me?"

She nodded.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered, taking her lips once more, then kissing along her jawline to her ear, where he whispered, "You will love how it feels."

The movement brought his musky scent and chiseled chest close to her. She inhaled and ran her hand along his smooth skin, into his soft tufts of chest hair.

"Ooooh," he moaned.

Encouraged, she hastily unbuttoned the rest of his shirt and pulled it off him, smoothing her hands along his entire chest, down his muscled abdomen and around his narrow waist. His naked body trembled but responded under a woman's touch after many years of solitude and he moaned again, stimulated by the stimulating sensation of her delicate probing hands.

She gasped as his mouth descended down her body, sucking her neck, licking her collar bone. He moved slowly, enjoying the view, mouthing then tugging the straps of her gown down her shoulders until the rounded neckline fell below her breasts.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered.

When his skilled fingers and warm mouth covered her bare nipples, Beverly again ascended the summit. He gently eased her backward until she lay on the desk. He stayed at her breasts, as her breathing quickened. Seeming to abandon his original plan, Jean-Luc's hand slowly traveled down her silky stomach to the part of her body he most worshipped. He carefully circled her folds, watching for her reaction. Her mouth opened in astonishment, but no sounds came out. His two fingers dove in and they both gasped, he from her wetness and she from the fullness of feeling him in her. He fought the urge to hurry, and slowly slid in and out, in and out until he felt her clamp down on his digits. She moaned and gripped him tighter, not hearing the rumble of distant thunder.

Lost in the fog of her orgasm, Beverly had not realized that Jean-Luc had returned to the chair until she felt his hot breath at the top of her thigh. She flinched, but his hands moved underneath her and squeezed and held her bottom in place as she felt a completely new, soft and warm sensation on the edges of her exposed flower.

As Jean-Luc's tongue slowly circled her moist petals, Beverly cried out into the rainstorm. The light touch against her most sensitive area was unique and exquisite. He tantalized her for long moments with repeated circles, each more thrilling than the last, and licked his tongue along her dripping flower up to her swollen nub. There, he applied pressure as he flicked his tongue back and forth. He felt her moving and saw her chest heaving as she fought for breath. Then, his mouth covered her completely and he sucked her essence—the most intimate of kisses—shaking her insides and making her buck her hips up into him, over and over as she climaxed.

"Aaanh," Beverly cried out, slapping the desk with the palms of her hands.

Drinking her juices, feeling her push into him, Jean-Luc jerked in the chair, his insistent crotch crying for release. Beverly looked, smelled, felt and tasted like no other woman and he luxuriated in pleasuring her. He released his grip on her sex and stood up.

Beholding her lying before him in ecstasy, even in the darkness, Jean-Luc burned with hunger. Never taking his eyes off her, as she rode out the waves, he freed his demanding cock, slid his arms down her legs and under her bottom. Visibly breathing hard, he stopped himself, poised at the entrance to all his happiness.

Regaining some sense of the here and now, Beverly looked up to see the beautiful man she loved, who had made her feel miraculously good, and now paused to ask permission to enter her innermost place and satisfy himself. She wrapped her legs around him until her heels touched the round flesh of his bottom and it was the most natural thing in the world to push him in closer to her. When she did, the tip of his erection brushed against her still-tingling flower, eliciting small gasps from them both.

"Beverly," he pleaded.

"Yes," she answered.

Jean-Luc closed his eyes and, as slowly as he could, hoping to savor every sensation and increase her pleasure, pushed inside her. Immediately her warmth encompassed him, and he felt his body cry out for immediate gratification.

"Unnh," he moaned, but he fought to control himself.

The presence of his thick hardness in her was like an earthquake inside Beverly. Every time he slid, back and forth, in and out, more and more earth-shatterings erupted all over her body, from her breasts to her awakened legs to the core of her being. He began to move faster.

"Ah, ah, ah," she panted in time with his movements. Her hands needed to hold something, to anchor her and she finally settled on the edges of the desk, splaying her arms out on either side of her, her breasts bouncing with each of his thrusts. The sight of Jean-Luc, standing up between her legs as he made love to her, his God-like body, strong and sensuous at the same time, plunging into her, enhanced the physical feel of him, which was heavenly. He was hers, all hers, and now they were one, joined, mated.

Jean-Luc loved the feel of Beverly wrapped around him, wet, snug and so hot. How had he lived without her the last months? As he moved in and out, he was titillated by how he was making her feel—her breathing was loud, her head rolled back and forth in her frenzy, and her firm breasts bounced with his rhythm. He leaned forward and grabbed them, squeezing and making her cry out, which fueled him even more.

"Aaah, Jean-Luc," she barely managed to say and the sound of his name on her swollen lips was nearly too much for him.

He sped up, until he pounded into her at a frantic pace. She squeezed him and it increased the sensation for them both until they could bear it no longer.

Jean-Luc exploded, his hot release filling her. "Aaaanh."

Beverly cresendoed again, reaching up and grabbing his shoulders to pull him down to her. His head came to rest on her glistening breasts as they fought to catch their breaths. He kissed the middle of her chest, his cheeks flush with her mounds. Her hands trapped him there and she kissed the top of his head, then lay back down, still panting. Beverly did not know what to say. All she could do was hold him tightly to express her need for him and her thrill at what he did to her body.

It was only two or three steps to the standard issue army cot, but he lifted her off the desk and, still sheathed in her, carried her the short distance, her arms draped around his neck and her legs crossed behind his back, holding him firmly in place. They kissed—a gentle act, after their earlier urgency, intimate and full of love. He kneeled down fluidly, despite holding her to his chest, his mouth never breaking contact with hers, and lay her gently on the cot, his one hand landing on the floor next to it. He started to back away but her hands pressed into his back to coax him back down. Hesitantly, not wanting to hurt her but continuing when she did not protest, he lowered himself and kissed her again.

Jean-Luc wanted so much to tell her what she, what their lovemaking meant to him. He was dismayed to find himself at a loss for words. He moved stray strands of her incredible hair away from her face and just stared into her eyes.

"Beverly," he whispered, seeing so much in her gaze—her feelings for him, trust, desire, a connection . . . his soulmate.

She lingered, seeming to see in his eyes how much he cared for her, but also how he would never leave her, how he would be hers forever, how they belonged together, body, mind and soul.

"I love you," they both said together.

"Jean-Luc . . . ."

 _"Mon amour . . . ."_

They kissed and snaked their arms around each other for a heartfelt embrace.

The cot creaked and shuddered. They paused. When it did not break, they shared a quick laugh.

"I know this, uh," he shifted his hip, then lifted his chest up and off her by placing his hands on the floor on either side on the cot, "is less than ideal."

He saw her mouth curve into a smile. "Why, Captain, are you apologizing for the accommodations?"

"I should apologize for the way I spoke to you."

"Maybe I should apologize for coming here."

He shook his head. "I don't think I have the right to criticize that decision just now."

Beverly laughed and her voice was musical. They lay together, feeling their skin touching, the closeness satisfying their need for each other. The steady rain pelted the tent in a soothing somnambulant pattern.

"I can't stay."

Jean-Luc's sudden pronouncement stabbed Beverly. Had his plan been to just make love to her, then leave, in a sad echo of their wonderful, yet terrible wedding day?

"Stay just a little while," she implored him.

"A little while," he answered, succumbing to the magic in her voice and on the soft skin of her neck, right by his lips, and in her arms and legs, wrapped securely around his body. "I have to leave before reveille sounds at 0400." His voice was low and languid, vibrating against her throat, tickling her and sending a shiver through her. So close to her that he felt it, he whispered, "Are you all right?"

Beverly sighed contently. "Oh, I'm so much more than all right, now that I'm with you, my darling."

They kissed, their tired mouths still pining for each other. These moments together had been perfect and filled their souls, yet both understood that their circumstances were less than ideal. Their burning now cooled, their rational minds returned to the discomfort of the army cot, the fact that they had made love on a table in a tent, amidst a company of men before whom they would have to hide their relationship.

"This is madness." Jean-Luc mumbled into her neck.

"Testing because I know' this is

" 'Though this be madness, yet there is method in't,' " Beverly answered playfully.

Which made him laugh. "You've been reading _Hamlet,_ too?"

"I've had a lot of free time. Or, at least I did before I got involved with your plantation."

He opened his eyes. _"You_ got involved? With the harvest?"

Beverly turned to look at him. "Yes, didn't you read my letters?"

"I did, but I thought it was Miss Ro who took charge. You were writing as her, remember."

"I know, but I couldn't very well write that Beverly Crusher was running things on the plantation of the man who jilted her. That sounds preposterous and would certainly attract some unwanted attention, don't you think?"

Jean-Luc was distracted, trying to imagine Beverly taking charge of the enormous harvest, the first of the combined fields. "How did you . . . ? How did you manage to solve the problems among the workers? And increase the yield so much?" She heard admiration in his voice. "Mr. Soong invented new machines? You hired a new overseer?"

"I prefer the term manager. Overseer is someone who supervises slaves, but your field hands are all freemen. He's a middle-aged man from Miss Ro's side, a very charismatic leader."

"Charismatic?"

"Mm-hm. Actually, he reminded me of you."

"Of me?" Jean-Luc was positively astonished by his new wife's accomplishments. He had known she was intelligent, of course, and hardworking, but to take on the management of a complex agricultural business, to bring new people and machinery into the production . . . . "But, how did you—"

"Sssh." Beverly touched a slender finger to his lips. "We can talk about it tomorrow. Right now, I just want to enjoy being with you."

 _I'm a fool,_ he thought. He snuggled closer to her, burying his face in her soft hair and kissing her ear.

Which made her laugh. "Mmmm. I'm so happy right now." She yawned as she tightened her hold on him with both her arms and her legs.

"As am I. You've had a long day, my love." He purred. "Get some rest now."

"Stay with me?"

His hand caressed her perfect cheekbone. "I'll stay until you fall asleep."

Jean-Luc's plan to sneak away before morning was not to be. Together, they relaxed into a comfortable cuddle. Together, they crossed into the peaceful realm of a contented sleep, to the rhythm of the rain, their weary bodies seeking the rejuvenation of rest. And together, they dreamed of a life where no one and no event could keep them apart.


	44. Chapter 44

Kyle Riker strode confidently out of the dining room of the sole hotel in town, universally regarded as serving the highest quality food available in this rural backwater. He had just enjoyed a five-course lunch with the town doctor, Dalen Quaice, and the town attorney, J.P. Hanson, who had brought him up to date on goings on in the county, because Kyle wanted to always be current. In exchange, Kyle had shared with the two professionals as much news from Richmond as he felt like divulging, keeping some things secret as was his wont. A career in politics had taught him a great deal, including the power of information. He looked, he thought, quite rakish, with his new-style hat, pressed suit and a toothpick in his mouth, a symbol of the opulent meal he had just ingested. Luckily, his appearance was not wasted: Alynna Nechayev was walking down the street in his direction, with a parasol and one of her servants, who was lugging a large basket filled to the brim with sundries.

"Why, good afternoon, Mrs. Nechayev," he called out as soon as she was in hearing range. "A pleasure seeing you today." He tipped his hat to her.

"Well, what a surprise meeting you here." Alynna never really gushed over anything, much less any man, but she did appear happy to see him.

"I got into town on the early train. In fact, my suitcase is still in my office." Kyle meant to impress upon her how busy he was and how much his attention was needed in town.

"Oh?"

He could not tell from her unexpressive face whether she appreciated the import of his full schedule. "Right now, I'm on my way to see the sheriff."

"Really?" She definitely seemed interested, if not completely in awe of his importance. "Whatever for?"

A-ha, he had hit a bullseye by appealing to her love of gossip. Women, he thought, not for the first time, were so easy to manipulate. Kyle swiveled so that he stood alongside Alynna, then offered her his arm. As he expected, she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow and walked with him. He noticed how dainty her hand and wrist were. Their new, closer position allowed him to speak conspiratorially, which gave an imposing air to the news he delivered. "I've gotten word of a massive criminal operation. Two fugitive slaves were shot and killed, some twelve miles north of here."

Once again, Alynna's face concealed her emotions. "How do we know that has anything to do with us?" If asked, she would have said that she was uninterested in the news, but interested in _Kyle's_ interest in the news.

"Because another fugitive was captured, an older woman, and, after being persuaded to talk," Kyle winked knowingly, "she admitted that black people living around here were helping her and the others to escape north."

"Others?"

"Yes, there was a larger group of them, but the others got away."

"The one who was captured couldn't tell where exactly she had gotten help? You don't know who around here was involved?"

Kyle nearly flinched at Alynna's deft penetration to the crux of the problem, but years of practicing self-control had trained him to maintain his poker face under all circumstances. Although a part of him found her intelligence and directness attractive, he most decidedly did not like the thought of a woman being so perceptive. "Not yet, we don't know. But . . . ," he paused to smirk in his secret knowledge, "the slave woman said that the criminals brought them to a _big plantation_. That certainly narrows it down."

For the first time, Alynna looked up at him, obviously intrigued. "You mean, the slave implicated one of the plantations in our county? A slave smuggling operation is going on right under our noses?"

Unable to exactly smile to communicate his smugness, Kyle instead deepened his voice to indicate gravity. "That is exactly what that means."

Alynna could not believe it. "Certainly, she could have been mistaken."

"She could have, but she described being taken through town, with landmarks like the train station and the hotel. We know that it was definitely somewhere near here."

Those corroborating facts quieted somewhat Alynna's resistance to the notion of sedition so close to home. Still, she shook her head, "Kyle, I find it very hard to accept that such a thing could be happening in our county. I'm sure any of us would know if slaves were being smuggled through our properties."

Kyle saw a chance to pounce. "Do you really think so? How often do you walk your property? How closely do you look at the slaves on your plantation? How much do you trust your overseer? Could you swear that nothing suspicious was going on?"

Seeds of doubt had been planted. "Well, I—"

Kyle stopped the two of them. "What about your neighbors and friends? Do you think Lwaxanna Troi has a solid grasp of everything happening on her plantation? Do you think little Miss Ro does?"

The first name elicited concern immediately, but the second did not. "I don't know about Miss Ro, but Captain Picard strikes me as a sound businessman who pays a great deal of attention to the details in his farming business."

"He's also been absent for five months," Kyle pointed out.

She silently conceded his points. "What do we do now? How do we ferret these criminals out?"

Kyle puffed out his chest even more than usual. "I am calling for a large-scale investigation that will bring law enforcement to every nook and cranny of the county."

"Really?" His words struck her as obviously overblown, in as much as local law enforcement consisted of one not particularly motivated sheriff.

"We will look on every piece of property in this county. We will bring the force of the law down on everyone. We will leave no stone unturned."

"You will?" Alynna's raised eyebrows signified her surprise, which Kyle misinterpreted and for which he took full credit.

"Oh, yes, and I have a pretty good idea where to start."

"You do? Where?"

"Uh-uh," he teased. "I can't give out that information. That's part of an ongoing criminal investigation. You will have to wait and see what happens, my dear. Wait and see."

Alynna had no intention of doing the former. At the end of the block, when Kyle took his leave of her to talk to the sheriff, she waved for her driver to meet her. She had an urgent letter to send to Vash and an urgent meeting to hold with her overseer. If there was anything out of the ordinary, much less illegal, to find on her property, she was determined to find it before Kyle and his inquisition.

* * *

All morning long, after a passionate coupling and a hurried goodbye, all they did was think of each other. Will discreetly took over command of the company, convincingly feigning that it was the captain's idea to test him. Beverly dressed, then stayed inside Will's tent, writing to Marie, Deanna and Dalen to let them know she had arrived safely. Jean-Luc snuck away after the company embarked on a hike and trotted back to Will's and his tents.

Beverly heard the horse ride up through the otherwise quiet camp and she instinctively knew who it was. Her heart sped up in anticipation. She put away the writing implements and stood, smoothing the skirt of the new brown dress Marie had made her, in the latest style, and arranging the ends of her long hair on her shoulders in a way that she hoped looked appealing. Her hands nervously checked the pink ribbon in her hair, another attempt to please her husband. She had just lowered her hands from the readjusted bow when he walked in.

Jean-Luc's desire had distracted him while he was with his men, powered him as he rode across the fields, and now took his breath away as he stood before the beautiful woman he still could not believe was his wife. Beverly smiled, noticing his speechlessness.

"Good morning, Jean-Luc."

All he had managed to do was remove his hat. Hearing her speak broke the spell enough that he was able to smile and return the greeting. "Good morning, _mon amour_. You look lovely."

"Thank you. You look very handsome in your uniform."

He reflexively looked down at his gray Confederate Army-issued uniform, newly received. The requisitions bureau was still struggling to outfit the enormous number of new recruits, but, as an officer, he was the first of his company to receive one. He had been told that by the time they reached Virginia, all of his men would have them. Virginia.

His features suddenly saddened. "Beverly . . . ." He took her hand and led her to the cot, where he sat down next to her, worry lines streaking his face.

"I didn't expect to see you this morning." She noticed the change in him immediately, but did not want to face the tension that hung in the air like the humidity that had drenched her during the last days of the harvest. Only half-consciously, she tried to distract his concern by focusing on the two of them being together. Although the circumstances were far from perfect for them, they were considerably improved from a week earlier, when she was moping about the house missing him and he was sleeping alone in a cot.

He sat back. "With Will's help, I managed to get away from the company while they take their daily hike. They won't be back until late afternoon."

"Really?"

"Yes, we'll have the camp mostly to ourselves until then. The, uh, cook is still here, but down at the opposite edge of the camp, nowhere near us."

Beverly nodded. "I knew that. I was thinking of talking to the cook to see if he could use my help, although I believe Nella is planning to do the same. I'm not sure if the doctor will let me work with him and I really want to make myself useful." The expression on the face she loved had become so pained that she could no longer ignore his feelings. "Jean-Luc, what's wrong?"

A part of Jean-Luc—including his heart and body—most definitely did not want to say what his mind knew that he must. For a glimmer of a second, he hesitated, hoping a better option would materialize in thin air and allowing himself to enjoy a last look into the face that he loved before he shattered their too-brief happiness. He exhaled loudly. "Beverly, you and the other women can't stay with us. We're going up north where we will join a large army that has already been in battle. It won't be safe and it's not advisable."

As he had expected, she looked crestfallen when he delivered the dreaded pronouncement She looked at him with questioning eyes and he felt the weight of the load the he knew he must bear.

Inside, Beverly began to question whether he wanted to be with her.

As though he could read her mind, Jean-Luc squeezed her hand and quickly reassured, "It's not that I don't want you with me. Please, believe me, I would love nothing more than to leave this war and run away with Wesley and you."

 _Wesley,_ Beverly thought, _he's still thinking of Wesley's safety._ Even as he slid the rug out from under her, he kept his arm around her waist to stop her from falling.

"But, I couldn't bear for you to be in mortal danger."

Finding her fortitude, Beverly defended her position. "But, we wouldn't be in danger. The women always stay well away from the fighting, miles back. It's been done before, many times. I know you're new to the army but surely some of the other captains could explain how this works and how soldiers' families are kept safe."

"No one could possibly guarantee your safety, regardless of the custom."

"No one can guarantee my safety back at home, either."

"While that is technically correct, your odds of being hurt or," he could barely bring himself to say the word, "killed are much higher in a war zone." Certainly, she would have to admit that brutal reality.

Beverly looked at him skeptically. "I don't think either of us has calculated odds of being hit by a stray bullet, say, six miles away from a battle, compared to being run over by a wagon or struck by a tree that falls in a storm—"

"Beverly—"

"—in an area prone to severe thunderstorms certain times of year."

"Beverly, even without calculating the odds with mathematical precision, common sense dictates that one would be more at risk in an area where large numbers of people are firing guns and cannons."

When she had started down this path, Beverly did not think it would take her anywhere close to winning the argument. However, as she continued, the case began to appeal to her and she decided to press it.

Standing up to face him from an equal height, she shook her head dismissively. "We could both benefit from more information. Why don't you talk with some of the other captains, or with Q, to find out how they plan to accommodate families? I'm sure you're not the only captain with some soldiers' wives who want to follow the army."

Jean-Luc suddenly paled as a new, darker worry crystallized in his already nervous mind. He took Beverly's elbows to guide her back to the cot, but instead he pulled her into an embrace. He held her with an urgency unlike passion and the tightness of his grip frightened her. She slid her arms along his waist and squeezed him back. "What is it?" She whispered without loosening her hold or looking at him.

He closed his eyes, suddenly worried about his ability to safeguard her life. At sea, he had been charged with the lives of many souls, both on his ships and on the lands that they protected. Now, there was one life that was more dear to him than all others and preserving it felt like a greater burden than he had ever borne. Why was it that he had all the confidence in the world—arrogance, some had called it—when commanding a ship in the midst of a battle and even preparing for a new battlefield in a new country, yet he was terrified and reduced to a fearful coward by the thought of a meddling neighbor and middling officer harming his precious wife?

"It's Q," he said, his face turned into her hair. "He's unstable and I want you to be far from him. I don't want him to ever find out about us."

This time, Beverly did back away enough to look at his face. She found his eyes troubled and his jaw clenched. "Q isn't half the man you are. I'm not afraid of him."

Jean-Luc had not wanted to divulge the very personal story Will had told him in confidence. "I have reason to believe that Q has taken vengeance on the wives of his enemies in the past."

Beverly nodded. "Betty Riker?"

"You know?"

"Not many people know, but Dalen told me. He heard it from the sole witness, Betty's mammy, and of course he examined her body after . . . after the fall."

Jean-Luc had not thought there might be physical evidence. "Did the body show any signs . . . ?" He tried to tread delicately.

"Dalen was looking for evidence that she had been pushed, but he didn't find any. He did find evidence that she had been under severe stress for an extended period of time—she had stomach ulcers and . . . there were signs that she had hurt herself."

Suddenly, Jean-Luc did not want to know any more.

Beverly closed the distance between the two of them and kissed him. "I know Q is an evil being, but you and I are both smarter than he is. I'm not afraid of him. The only thing I'm afraid of is not being with you."

Jean-Luc took her in his arms, tenderly this time, and kissed her slowly and sensually. Pressing her into his body, his hands made out the contours of her back—shoulder blades, spine, curve of her lower back, gradual rounding of her bottom. As his hand cupped her, he squeezed her even closer.

Feeling Jean-Luc's hardness pushing against her sex, Beverly was about to protest that it was the middle of the day—not a time, in her experience, for lovemaking, although that seemed to be what both their bodies wanted. Even as she felt the tingling that heralded joy and pleasure, her mind shouted that enjoying what she had been taught were the sins of the flesh in broad daylight was wrong. She felt torn between what she knew to be right and the building desire that needed to be quenched. Propriety was losing ground as her husband caressed her bottom Her hands clasped the back of his head and held him in place as her tongue danced with his and their lips pressed together, not wanting to live apart.

The rider made no effort to conceal his presence, thus they both heard the horse's hooves as it approached. They flew apart and Jean-Luc put a finger to his lips to indicate silence. Beverly nodded.

He rapidly composed himself under his uniform and just as rapidly stepped outside the tent. He did not have time, however, to adopt the more casual pose he had hoped to present before the rider rounded his larger tent and greeted him.

"Captain Picard!"

"Major." Jean-Luc fought to maintain his even smile with a slight nod that allowed him to look downward, away from the probing eyes of his superior, if only for a moment.

"What are you doing here in the middle of the morning? Aren't your men hiking through the dense forest today, chopping their way to the river?"

"Yes, they are, that was the assigned route. I decided that Lt. Riker should lead them today, as a valuable exercise of his abilities."

"I see," Q feigned. "And while they're off fighting chiggers and inclines, what are you up to?"

"Oh, I have various matters to attend to," Jean-Luc said not entirely convincingly. "I have correspondence to address and I've wanted to study the reports of the latest battle—"

"Liar," Q said victoriously.

"Major, I resent your calling me—"

"You were checking up on Riker, weren't you? You were just in his tent. Going through his things? Looking for something incriminating?"

Jean-Luc assessed his options and immediately settled on one that, he hoped, would keep Q on his horse and coax him to ride away. He pretended to have been caught in the act.

"I was merely making sure that Lt. Riker's tent conformed to army policy, sir."

"Too late!" Q gloated. "You've been discovered." Much to Jean-Luc's distress, he dis-mounted and tied his reins to a tree. He turned to Jean-Luc appraisingly, as though he were about to circle around him in his typical condescending manner. That route would place him between Jean-Luc and the doorway of Will's tent.

Jean-Luc turned ninety degrees, so that his shoulder blocked Q's progress. "Major, may I offer you some refreshments?"

Q was taken aback. "Oh? What kind of refreshments?"

"I have some of my sister-in-law's pound cake, as well as some English breakfast tea and, if you're in the mood, we could chase it with some whiskey."

Q smiled at the very first overture by the man who was simultaneously his favorite and least favorite captain. "Why, yes I would, _mon capitaine._ Let us share a repast." Moving perilously close to the opening in the tent, Q swung an arm around Jean-Luc's shoulders in what Jean-Luc supposed was a friendly gesture, although it felt like anything but.

Beverly held her breath until she heard the two men move away. She briefly considered leaving the tent to hide somewhere—the camp or maybe the woods—but she could not risk Q hearing her. Anxious with the threat of discovery so near, she nevertheless decided that she should stay put and trust Jean-Luc to deflect the danger. Thinking it would somehow be easier to explain, in the event that Q should fling the tent flap open, she returned to the desk and pretended to write her letters.

Sitting at Jean-Luc's desk to stake a territorial claim, Q let his junior officer make tea and cut pieces of pound cake. When the former was ready, however, he declined and merely poured whiskey into his teacup.

"So, you thought it a good idea to investigate Riker?" Q's eyes flashed as he helped himself to a piece of cake.

Jean-Luc sighed wearily, hoping his act was convincing. "I was merely conducting an inspection of his tent, which is Confederate Army property."

"Mm-hm," Q said with a mouth full. "Did you find anything?"

"No, sir."

"Mmnf." Another bite. Q wiped his mouth with one of Jean-Luc's linen napkins. "And what were you looking for?" He asked pointedly, his sharp eyes boring into Jean-Luc.

Just then, Jean-Luc was struck by inspiration. He demurred, "I'd rather not say, sir."

As expected, his hesitation piqued Q's interest. The taller man stopped eating, sat up straight and slid his chair closer to Jean-Luc. His face and manner made clear his seriousness. "Captain, I will make that an order. What were you looking for in Lt. Riker's tent?"

Jean-Luc fidgeted, to appear uncomfortable, and used his own napkin. "Well, sir, I only thought—keeping in mind that I don't know people here as well as you or Riker—that it might behoove me to know what Riker was writing to his father. After all, his father is a state senator and if he had written anything negative about me, it might cause me difficulties in some way in the future."

The confession, appealing to Q's own paranoia, worked. He slapped his hands together. "Marvelous! The great Captain Picard, finally revealed to be just as petty and conniving as the rest of us. Welcome to the human race, Jean-Luc." Utterly pleased with himself, and enjoying Jean-Luc's apparent discomfort, Q poured the whiskey, a refresher in his cup and a chaser in Jean-Luc's tea.

After downing a gulp, Q asked, "What was in his letters? Should we go and look at them?" His eyes darted in the direction of Will's tent and Jean-Luc's heart skipped a beat.

He shook his head casually. "There's nothing of interest. It's mostly about Deanna and how excited he is to become a father."

"Surely he said something about the army?"

Jean-Luc nodded, chewing a piece of cake to buy some time to think. "He's sick of the mud and the bugs. This weather," he gestured to the great wide world outside his tent, "isn't helping. And the food."

Q kept picking. "He said nothing about me? Nothing about you?"

"If you must know," Jean-Luc sighed and sipped his spiked tea, "he said that I was too hard on the men, but—how did he put it—'an inspiring and perspiring leader.'" Jean-Luc's thin mouth signified his distaste for the description, rather convincingly, as he had just made it up on the spot. He was quite proud at having thought of something that mimicked Will's sense of humor, which even Jean-Luc knew was superior to his.

"What did he say about me?" Q became impatient.

"There was a mention, a few weeks ago. He said that you oversaw everything in the regiment, very thoroughly, but mostly left us to our own devices, which he liked."

"There was no criticism of me?" Q sounded disappointed.

"No particular criticism or compliment. Although," Jean-Luc appeared to have just remembered a detail, "he did write that your horse was magnificent." As a horseman himself, Jean-Luc knew that the description was accurate and he hoped it would stroke Q's vanity. "As I said, he mostly writes about Deanna. And . . . ." He trailed off to feed the curious monster in Q.

"And what?"

"Well, it sounds as though our Lt. Riker wants to keep open the option of moving into politics. He often includes his analysis of battles and political situations. I think he's trying to impress the old man."

Q leaned forward in his chair. "Anything noteworthy or particularly penetrating in his analysis?"

"No. Nothing that you or I haven't thought of weeks, if not months, earlier. Riker has a second-rate intellect and little imagination. After the war is over, he'll likely have to rely on his father's connections."

Q suddenly stood up and clapped his hands a second time, causing Jean-Luc to start and spill some of his tea. "I love it! Well done, Picard."

He paced, thinking. Although Jean-Luc had seen his superior officer engage in this habit in the past, every time Q ambled toward the front of the tent, Jean-Luc's heart skipped a beat and his muscles tensed, preparing to leap out of his chair and physically detain Q from walking out of the tent and finding Beverly, separated from them only by twenty feet or so and two canvas layers.

Q finally spoke. "Here's what I want you to do. From now on, monitor his correspondence closely. Report to me on a regular basis. I want to know what he's telling Kyle Riker and what, if anything worthwhile, Kyle is telling him." He spun around to face Jean-Luc. "Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Q roared in laughter, slapped Jean-Luc on the back, finished his drink, then walked out of the tent.

Jean-Luc hurriedly followed, clambering outside to place himself between Will's tent and Q. He was relieved to find Q untying his horse. Before mounting it, however, Q turned to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm glad we had this little chat, Jean-Luc. I feel it's brought us closer." He climbed atop his horse. "Marie's cake was delicious but your whiskey was terrible. See if you can get your hands on something better before the next time you offer me a drink."

"Yes, sir," Jean-Luc replied, as Q rode away. He stood frozen for a few minutes, not quite believing his luck in pulling off the deception. After Q had receded beyond earshot in the woods, Jean-Luc realized that Q had never said what he had been doing riding around their camp while the company was gone. Had the major been checking up on _him?_

Inside Will's tent, Beverly stood frozen next to the flap, sure she had heard Q take his leave, but not hearing anything more. Where was Jean-Luc? Was it safe? After agonizing minutes, he walked in, hugged her and told her what had transpired.

"Jean-Luc, that was brilliant." She smiled in admiration.

"I hope Will thinks so."

"He'll understand."

Jean-Luc looked at her. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure. I know Will and—well, I guess I'm assuming he admires you as much as I do."

Jean-Luc smiled wryly. "I'm not so sure that's a valid assumption, but we shall have to live with it until I get a chance to talk with him."

They sat awkwardly on the cot. "We have to be careful, don't we?" She asked.

He nodded. "Yes, we do."

From this close call, it was easy to decide that careful meant keeping their clothes on during the day. The immediate danger past, however, they were able to relax, enjoy each other's company and catch up on the activities at home and at camp. Jean-Luc agreed to discuss the encampment of families with other captains, and Beverly agreed to think about her safety.

Before the troops returned, he made his rounds of the camp and settled into this tent. When Riker reported in, Jean-Luc, briefed him on Q's visit and the elaborate ruse he had concocted to conceal his being with Beverly. Jean-Luc reasoned that, by painting Will as a politically ambitious man of limited intellect, he had induced Q to underestimate him, which might prove helpful in the future. Will was not completely certain of the long-term strategy, but trusted his captain. Together, the two men plotted the next day's assignments, as was their habit.

Beverly spoke with the cook, but Nella had already secured the position of cook's assistant. The two women had shared an uneasy truce on the trip east. Nella made known her belief that Beverly was a traitor, like her son. Their other companion, Keiko, was more open-minded, perhaps as a result of enduring ostracism herself. The doctor did not have an assistant, but did not see the need for one.

Wesley ate dinner with her and tried to be positive. "You're happy that you're here, though, right?"

"Yes, I am happy. I just don't know what I'm going to do all day."

"I know!"

Beverly loved to see her son's enthusiasm when he came up with ideas.

"You could sew things. Guys get holes in their socks all the time and sometimes shirts get caught on branches when we hike and stuff."

"That's a good idea."

"And you could walk around the woods and look for plants and things in case someone gets sick or has a wound. We get bug bites a lot and sometimes cuts."

Beverly sighed. "The doctor didn't want to have anything to do with me."

"So, you could just treat people on the side. Believe me, there are enough bugs out here to keep you both busy."

"Hmm. I'll think about it. Thank you for the suggestions."

They ate in silence. Beverly hoped that Nella's addition to the cooking process would result in better food. Maybe, she thought, if she roamed around looking for medicinal plants, she could collect some herbs and figure out a way to sneak them into the stew.

"So, uh, Mom?"

"Yes?" Beverly wondered why Wesley sounded so nervous all of a sudden.

"Is everything okay between you and the captain?"

"Oh, yes, everything is just . . . ." She had begun to gush, but realized that her excitement was making her son uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. We're, uh, we're happy to see each other and everything is fine."

"Good. I mean, I didn't mean to pry."

"You didn't."

"I was just, you know, checking on you."

Beverly smiled. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair and kiss the top of his head, but she understood that he was too old for that now. She stopped eating her mush and just looked at her son across the campfire. His wrinkled brow. The confidence with which he moved. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, Wesley had become a man. As she adjusted to her new life—finding work to do, keeping her love life secret, as she secretly enjoyed it—she would have to remember that her relationship with Wesley had changed forever.


	45. Chapter 45

Thank you, readers, for your reviews and for staying with this story! Slow-moving pace for a while more, but things will eventually move faster. Best wishes, Liz

* * *

Ro Laren neither liked nor disliked J.P. Hanson, but she very much appreciated him coming out to warn Guinan and her about the upcoming raids that Kyle Riker was in the process of organizing. As the two women watched his carriage ride away, both realized that, should the sheriff and the senator look too closely at the combined plantation, they would have a serious problem.

Ro spoke first. "We could account for every person that we're supposed to have."

"But the property records would reveal that everyone is free," Guinan pointed out.

"People free slaves all the time."

"Yes, but not usually large landowners and not in such high numbers. And if it were known, then the captain's and your sentiments would be known and you would be suspects. Don't forget, you already have your wagon implicated in a smuggling ring."

Ro nodded. "Then we have to think of a way to hide what we're doing or a way to implicate someone else."

Guinan frowned. "I don't like the idea of pointing a finger at someone else. What if they discover where that finger came from?"

The more she thought about it, the more certain Ro became that that was the right approach. "I don't want them coming here and seeing our new farm machinery. I don't want them to find out how much money we made. They can't find the tunnel. If they knew we had a large population of healthy and strong freed black people, they would never let us be."

Although the thought of provoking one of their formidable neighbors made her wary, Guinan had to concede Ro's point. As they walked inside, she looked at her companion. "Exactly who do you plan to implicate in the smuggling operation?"

"I don't know yet. We'll have to think about it. Get everyone together—tonight—and we'll start plotting it. We don't have much time."

"No we don't." Guinan moved through the house, on her way to gather everyone—Worf, Geordi, Silva, Ben. If she were the type who was prone to sighing, she would have done so. Instead, she merely focused her mind on the problems plaguing the group of conspirators.

As if evading county sheriffs and columns of troops were not formidable enough problems, the railroad conductors also had to deal with their own interpersonal feuds. Geordi was mad at Silva for not reconciling with Edward. Guinan, Silva and Ro were arguing about how to continue their work or if they even should. Worst of all, Ben looked at Worf as though he wanted to kill him because he blamed him for Jenny's death and Worf was angry with everyone because, deep down, he blamed himself, too.

They had all taken Jenny's death hard. Since they had arrived at the plantation, Ben and Jenny had become very helpful and much loved. Before they joined the railroad, Ben had led a crew of workers in repairing Miss Ro's house, which had suffered from years of neglect. Jenny had performed any task that needed to be done—whether in the house or on the land—always with a smile on her face and a kind word for those she met. Everyone, it seemed, missed her.

But nobody missed her more than young Sarjenka. After her rescue, Sarjenka had lived with Ben and Jenny as their child. She thought she had finally found a safe home, where no one could hurt her, where she had two parents who loved her. Ben's return without Jenny had reminded her of the cruelty and danger of her world and caused her to fear for the safety of those she loved at all times, sometimes so much that she panicked. Unable to comfort her in his grief, Ben hid himself away in solitude most of the day and all of the night.

As a result, Sarjenka had begun to shadow Ro and to sleep with Ro, in her bed. Familiar with the terrors that could haunt a child at night, Ro woke up with and comforted Sarjenka after each nightmare, holding her as she cried and singing her father's songs to carry her back to slumber. She had never thought she would sing those lullabies again. She had never thought she would care about someone the way she cared about Sarjenka.

"Mm-hm," Guinan said to herself as she walked out through the kitchen door into the still warm autumn evening. Although she was no closer to a solution to the problem of Sen. Riker's looming investigation, she had concluded that they would have to cease operations on their branch of the railroad.

* * *

Beverly's reputation for soothing bug-bitten skin with special plant leaves spread through the encampment as fast as the bugs themselves seemed to crawl. The soldiers' initial hesitation at having a woman touch their skin was overcome once they saw how quickly Wesley and Will recovered from pesky mosquito and chigger bites. Many of the men were young, scarcely older than Wesley, and they related to her as respectfully and chastely as they would their own mothers.

Jean-Luc was glad that she had found something meaningful to do during the day. Their nights were glorious and completely hidden from the company. According to the story being told among the men—and relayed to him by Will—he had cruelly broken Beverly's heart by marrying another woman. Given their history, they were not expected to speak to or even look at each other and that pretense for avoidance helped them get through the day without slipping up.

Just after she had cleaned up Wesley's and her dinner, Beverly was startled by a man who seemed to appear out of the shadows.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Crusher?"

"Yes?" She gripped the edge of the plate she had just washed, concerned, but when she looked up, she saw a tall man with long dark hair and a shy, disarming smile.

"I heard that you have a plant that will help with mosquito bites."

"Yes, I do."

"I'd be very much obliged if you could share some of it with me."

"Of course." Beverly tried to be as accommodating as possible, to establish her place in the camp, but also to help Wesley's reputation among the men. She moved spritely to retrieve several large aloe leaves from one of the canvas bags that she always brought with her to keep medicinal plants that she collected in her wanderings.

"I don't believe we've met," the man was saying. "I'm Frank Odan, Corporal Frank Odan."

"Mrs. Beverly Crusher."

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Crusher."

Beverly allowed a small, businesslike smile. "Let's see the bites."

Cpl. Odan smiled and lingered on Beverly's face, but her eyes did not meet his. Rather, she was scanning his hands and wrists, places where most of the men had been bitten, since they were generally good at keeping their arms covered. Following her gaze, he rolled up his shirtsleeves and opened his arms to show her red bumps along his wrists and forearms. "I was so hot the other night that I slept in just my undershirt. But the little buggers found me." He attempted a laugh but she did not join.

"I see," Beverly said, paying no attention whatsoever to the intimate detail he had just revealed. Turning, she retrieved some hard aloe leaves from one of her bags. With her knife, she sliced two of them open. "Hold out your arms."

He complied.

She carefully scraped off the aloe gel from the inside of the leaves on to his forearms.

"So, you're from Georgia?" Odan asked Beverly.

"Mm-hm." She did not look up as she began to rub it in to his muscled arms.

"The same county that most of the men in the company are from?"

"Mm-hm." She kept rubbing.

"I'm not from Georgia. I'm originally from Florida. It's kind of a strange story how I ended up here."

Beverly paused slightly, for Odan's last comment had alerted her that he had come to talk to her for another reason besides relief from itchy insect bites. She wondered why she had not realized it sooner. In the past, she had always spotted men who were attracted to her immediately and communicated to them her displeasure unambiguously. Perhaps he had caught her off guard because she saw herself as married and unavailable and she had forgotten that no one else knew that. Whatever the reason for her lapse, she had to rectify the situation before her would-be suitor got the wrong impression.

She sighed. "I'm sure it's a fascinating tale, corporal, but I'm really not interested."

She stopped her ministrations, turned and gathered several leaves. "Here," she shoved them at him, careful not to touch accidentally touch his hand. "This should be enough until the company travels to Virginia, provided you keep your arms covered."

She backed away and started walking toward the center of the camp, searching for Wesley.

"Wait." Odan caught up to her. "I apologize if I upset you. I just thought maybe we could talk-"

"I'm sorry but you thought wrong."

"You seem like a very nice person. I've seen you talk with all the other men, smile and laugh with them. Was it something I said?"

Had she really been smiling and laughing with the other men? Beverly shuddered inside at that image of her. Although she had been deliriously happy since arriving and had felt relaxed and comfortable with Jean-Luc, she could not recall acting overly friendly with the others who had come to her for herbal remedies. More unsettling, this forward man had apparently been watching her, to make such an observation. Just then, she spotted Wesley on his way back from fixing someone's old rifle that had jammed.

Reaching back in her not-too-distant memory and summoning the voice and face she had used on curious men before Jean-Luc, Beverly spun around on the innocent-appearing corporal.

"Mr. Odan, I'm not interested in continuing this conversation or in having another one with you. Those leaves will help you and the army provides a doctor for any other medical problem you may have."

With that, she stalked off toward Wesley, her rapid steps carrying her away from the uncomfortable encounter and leaving Cpl. Odan alone in the center of the camp, wondering what he had done wrong. When she caught up to Wesley, she took his arm and suggested they walk up the hill to watch the sunset, thinking that she had gotten rid of Odan as she had countless other inquiring men before him.

Beverly's celebration was short-lived, however. Odan re-appeared the following evening at roughly the same time, just as Beverly had finished removing a young man's splinter. Her head down as she focused on the task at hand, she had not seen him approach, but looked up at the sound of his footsteps.

She managed to frown at him while she sent her other patient on his way, then she made known her anger at having her wishes so quickly disrespected. "Mr. Odan, I thought I made it clear that you should see the army doctor for any more medical needs and that I did not want to see you for anything further. If I was unclear yesterday—"

Odan smiled in a not unattractive way. "I don't need any medical attention, Mrs. Crusher. I brought something for you that I found on our way back from shooting practice." He slid a rucksack off his back and opened it up on Wesley's small camp stool, dumping out its contents

Beverly stared at the thick, brown, misshapen roots in awe. She had recognized them as a potent natural cure immediately, but had not seen the plant in several years. She reached out and touched several with the roaming hand of a lover. She held one to her nose to verify what her eyes told her and found that, yes, it did have the tangy smell she remembered. "Where did you find these?"

Odan pointed off into the distance. "Through that thicket, there's a field where we shoot. Beyond the field, there's a denser forest between here and a stream. There's more out there."

She finally looked up at him. "How did you know what they are?"

"I had a grandmother who was a healer."

Beverly's eyes widened. "So did I," she whispered, surprised to learn that they had something in common. She regained her composure. "You said there are more of these plants where you found these?"

"Yes, quite a few."

"Can you take me there? Can we make it before it gets dark?"

Odan nodded. "If we get started right away, we should be able to make it."

Beverly grabbed a shawl and a basket. "Let's go."

Even though she was only interested in the roots, Odan was encouraged by her reaction. His heartbeat quickened as she led him off toward the woods and he hurried to catch up to the most fascinating woman he had ever met in all his travels.

After supper, Jean-Luc had decided to set up his chair outside his tent, as he usually did only on Sundays. He did so ostensibly to survey his men in the depression below him, but in reality, to observe Beverly. During their nights together she had been telling him of her herbal medicine practice and he hoped to catch her in action. Even if she had not told him, he would have imagined that she would have grown bored without something to do during the day. Jean-Luc admired Beverly's intellect as much as her beauty and he hoped to steal a glimpse of her working and happy in her element. Plus, a part of him recalled her tending to him after he was shot and he thought perhaps seeing her mimicking some of those movements would help him recall that special time of their blossoming closeness.

Sitting in his perch, Jean-Luc discreetly watched Beverly help twin brothers with chigger bites around their ankles, then perform an operation that looked very much like pulling out a splinter for one of the young men from Franklin County. All of a sudden, he saw another man approach hesitantly and stand off to the side, watching rather more intently than her husband liked. He leaned forward in his chair, making no effort to hide the fact that he was focused on the herbal healer and her customer. To his great surprise, he saw his wife wrap a shawl around her shoulders, pick up a basket and start off with the man in the direction of the woods that led to the rifle practice field.

Who was that man? Jean-Luc saw corporal stripes on his arm and, as they passed his hill, he noticed the long brown hair. Yes, he remembered, the corporal from Florida, tall, rather good at getting along with the others, at smoothing out disputes, if Jean-Luc recalled correctly. Distracted by the sight of Beverly walking off with another man, he struggled but finally remembered the man's name, Cpl. Odan.

He stood up just before they reached the edge of the wooded area, where they would be concealed. What premise could he create for following them? He looked about for Riker, thinking perhaps to have Will concoct a reason for Odan to return to the camp. Not finding Will, he turned back toward their retreating forms and watched as they disappeared behind a large elm. In a state approaching panic, he searched his campsite and the larger mass of men below, futilely hoping for a solution to present itself.

Finally, Jean-Luc spied Wesley returning to his tent. "Mr. Crusher!" He called and motioned for the young man to come up the hill.

Wesley bounded up. "Yes, sir?"

Jean-Luc exhaled, losing his command voice as he did so. "Wes, a few minutes ago, I saw your mother walk into the woods with one of the men." He pointed in the direction. "I want you to take my horse and head over there to make sure she's safe."

Confused as to what his mother would be doing alone with a man and further confused by what the others in the company might make of him riding the captain's horse, Wesley stood still with his mouth partly open for a moment.

"That's an order, private." The command voice returned.

"Yes, sir."

Certain that Wesley would handle whatever mischief he might encounter, Jean-Luc retreated into his tent, in order to appear uninterested in the whereabouts of the young soldier's mother. He had merely happened to see the widow embark on an inappropriate walk and, as a courtesy, had informed Wesley so that he could take appropriate action, he told himself, to prepare for any questions. In keeping with his cover story, Jean-Luc was seated inside his tent when he heard his horse return. He jumped up to talk to Wesley and nearly ran into Will on his way into the tent that they supposedly shared.

"Sir, I brought back your mount."

"Where is Wesley?"

"He's helping his mother with some plants. I told him to hurry up and get to bed."

Jean-Luc nodded. It was dark now. "And Mrs. Crusher?"

Will smiled. "She should be walking up the hill to her quarters any minute now." With his chin, he nodded in the direction of Wesley's tent, where a lantern was visible bobbing up and down as its holder moved about.

"Very good." Jean-Luc stiffened as though he were receiving a military report and turned to re-enter his tent.

Later that night, after making love, Jean-Luc and Beverly snuggled in each other's embrace. They had figured out how to lie side by side without causing the cot to fold up, but their positions were precarious enough that they could barely move. Fortunately, neither one needed to move very much. Their appetites sated, all they wanted was to touch and feel each other's body, talk and laugh together, until they fell happily asleep.

"You seem to be quite occupied during the day now," Jean-Luc commented, as casually as he could.

"Yes, I've been doing some sewing for the men in the mornings. Then, later in the day, I walk around collecting herbs and medicinal plants. The men are getting so bug-bitten, they've been very receptive to someone with a cure for the itching and swelling."

"Very good. You've found a way to be helpful, which I know you wanted to do." He was sincerely happy for and proud of her. "You must be getting to know the men, then."

Despite Jean-Luc's best efforts at concealment, Beverly knew immediately what he was talking about—or, more accurately, who.

"Is there any man in particular you're asking about?" She asked.

He recognized her challenging tone and was thankful that the dark concealed his reddening ears. "Oh, no, I just meant in general," he tried.

One of her beautifully shaped eyebrows rose tauntingly along with one side of her mouth. "In general, I find the men of your company to be polite and respectful, but smelly individuals who tend to have too much facial hair."

"Ah, yes, well those last two characteristics are aspects of camp life, I'm afraid. It's no different on board a ship on the ocean."

"Mm-hm."

His lips parted as though he had something to say, but he struggled to phrase it.

Beverly helped him. "Jean-Luc, why don't you ask me about the one man that you're really curious about?"

Flustered, he stuttered, "It's-it's just that you—that the two of you walked off into the woods together." He paused for dramatic effect. "Alone," he added, not that his position should have needed strengthening, but anticipating that, in Beverly's eyes, it might.

Suddenly, she no longer felt like teasing him. She leaned closer, stroked his cheek and kissed him gently. "You're very attractive when you're jealous."

"I am not—" he began reflexively, then stopped himself and exhaled in a frustrated admission. "I may be a little jealous."

Her smile lit up the dark unknown that had grown between them and wondrously calmed his deepest fear. She kissed him again and he could feel her love for him in the tender caresses of her tongue. "You have absolutely no reason to feel jealous.

"It's just that—"

"Don't you trust my feelings for you?"

"I do. But . . . . I'm well aware that I'm quite a bit older than you. And we happen to be surrounded by a number of men who are quite a bit younger than I."

Beverly scoffed. "I've probably turned down an army of younger men before I met you, Jean-Luc, and I will have no hesitation in turning down another army now that I'm happily married to you."

Her words made him smile despite his worries, yet . . . . "You did walk into the woods with Cpl. Odan," his insecurity blurted out.

"Yes, he wanted to show me where he had found some medicinal roots, a species I hadn't been able to find for years. We dug up several more and brought them back. They're a very potent natural cure for all kinds of—"

"Beverly, you should be wary of going anywhere unchaperoned with a man you hardly know."

"Do you think Mr. Odan is dangerous?"

On the contrary, Jean-Luc thought Odan an excellent and loyal soldier. "No, but that's beside the point. _You_ did not know him."

"I knew he was in your company. He's one of your soldiers and I'm sure he would have to answer to you for anything untoward he did. I trusted your command of your company."

He was not placated. "Thank you for the compliment, but I would appreciate if, in the future, you would forebear any further unchaperoned trips with any of my men."

Beverly basked in his possessiveness of her. Her first inclination had been anger that he would presume to tell her where she could go and with whom. But, the feeling of being cherished by Jean-Luc was too wonderful to suppress. She decided to enjoy it now and, if necessary, challenge him on his husbandly edict in the future.

She noticed that he still seemed uneasy, his body still tense. "Jean-Luc, please believe me, you have no reason to worry at all." Her hand lovingly traveled down his toned chest, along his side and around his back. "No man has ever made me feel the way you do, even before we were married, but, especially since then." She sighed without realizing it.

Jean-Luc realized it and found more courage. "Do you mean . . . are you satisfied, with our lovemaking?" From what he could tell, her body seemed to react strongly, but, in his experience, women tended to be mysterious beings, full of unspoken needs and very different body parts. He had long ago painfully learned that his own satisfaction was no indicator of his partner's degree of pleasure. And Beverly was no mere partner, but his beloved wife. Her happiness was everything to him and he would do whatever it would take to satisfy her sexually.

"Oh, Jean-Luc, satisfied doesn't even _begin_ to describe how you make me feel. You've shown me a whole world of incredible sensations that I've never felt before. You make me feel so . . . beautiful, so loved, so spectacular when we make love."

As she spoke, she accentuated her feelings by tightening her grip on him, her arm pressing into his back and her leg squeezing his thigh. The movements highlighted how well they fit together. This time, when she claimed his mouth in a kiss, she held him tightly in place, telling him the depth of her love with soft strokes of her tongue. He finally relaxed, enjoying her kissing as well as the spiraling movements of her hands on his body.

Suddenly, the beauty of their bonding ended, as Beverly's mouth moved away from his. He felt her hesitancy.

"What's wrong?" Jean-Luc asked.

She tried to smile. "Nothing's wrong, nothing with you. It's just . . . ."

"Beverly, clearly, it's something. If not our lovemaking, please let me know what's bothering you." He was eager to correct whatever he was doing that displeased her.

"Well, it's just that . . . ." Beverly hesitated, nervous to say the unsaid. A voice in her head whispered to her to stop, but she wanted to be completely open and honest with her husband. She wanted to tell Jean-Luc of her reservations. She looked into his earnest eyes, frowning with concern. She could not let him fret that he had caused any of her ambivalence. She would have to bare her internal conflict to him. "It's just that I was raised to believe that women are not supposed to enjoy it."

"Not enjoy what?"

"Lovemaking."

"But how could you not . . . ever? Women are not supposed to _ever_ enjoy it?"

"No, not ever."

Jean-Luc was confused. "But, how could someone not ever enjoy making love? That doesn't make any sense."

Beverly smiled and touched a palm to his chest. "You said it yourself the other night. _The Scarlet Letter._ American attitudes toward making love are more conservative than those of Europeans."

He shook his head. "Puritanical. More than 200 years after the settling of this country by an outcast religious sect, their ideas still dominate as important a part of daily life as making love." Quick to dismiss what he considered fringe beliefs, Jean-Luc nevertheless began to realize that they must have had a significant impact on his wife, since she had lived virtually all her life in the repressive environment they had created. What did that mean for Beverly, for her ability to enjoy their sexual activities? "But, you said that you did enjoy . . . ."

"Oh, yes," Beverly breathed, quickly. "I enjoy being with you very much. It's just that . . . a part of me feels guilty because I . . . ." She suddenly felt hot, as flames of passion grew within her, despite the cooling words she was speaking. "I really, really love the way you make me feel. And I love seeing you so . . . excited when we make love." Pressed against his chest, her nipples began to awaken. "I never thought of myself as a bad woman before . . . ." Her legs had him pinned so that she felt him hardening against her womanhood. She closed her eyes to try to will away her growing want. She must be truly evil indeed, to feel the pull of bodily desire even as she was talking about the sinfulness of the very act that would sate it. What would the pastor think—

"Beverly."

The sound of her name in his sensual baritone both stopped her distracted train of thought and increased her physical response to him. "Yes?" She managed to say.

Jean-Luc unleashed the smile he had only ever used with Beverly. "Please, do not ever feel ashamed. You are most certainly not a bad woman, in any manner that that word could possibly be defined. You are a God-fearing, good woman who helps others. And, like women in other countries, you are most certainly allowed to enjoy the pleasure of the act that comes most naturally to humans," he began to breathe into, then lick her earlobe, "and is socially acceptable everywhere between a man and wife."

"Ooooh," Beverly moaned, her body ready to surrender. Yet, her mind persisted. "How can you know what God finds acceptable?"

"God created both man and woman. Why would he make us such a perfect fit for one another," his fingers tickled as he traced her spine, "yet allow only one of us to enjoy being together?"

His lips and tongue found her neck and the sensations caused by their roaming rendered her speechless . . . almost. "Are you sure?" She asked, although, obviously, a part of her knew that Jean-Luc could not give her the absolution of God that resided only in church. A larger, growing part of her had come to need Jean-Luc, the man, his mind, his heart and his body, more than she had ever needed anything in her life. During the day, when they stayed carefully apart from each other, she longed for him more than for sustenance or sleep. If her feelings emanated from the devil, then perhaps she was damned. But the fear of an eternity burning in hell could not stop her from wanting Jean-Luc.

"I'm positive," he answered, taking her breast in his mouth, sucking and pulling.

"Aaaaaah," was all Beverly could speak in response as her fears vanished along with his doubts and all other thoughts between the two of them.

* * *

Vash discreetly dispatched her butler to bring Alynna Nechayev to her house as soon as Kyle Riker showed her the search warrant. Kyle stood with her in her parlor, eager to begin his search of the property. After shrugging apologetically, Sheriff Q, her husband's cousin, made himself comfortable in one of Vash's imported chairs and sat idly twirling his hat in his hands.

When Kyle had dramatically produced the warrant and waved it in her face, he had not expected Vash to read it. Her insistence that she read—and understand—its legalese provisions before the search began was stalling his momentum and diminishing his menace. To his frustration, he had not been able to make eye contact with the sheriff, who seemed content to sit and twiddle his thumbs. Maybe the man needed more motivation, Kyle mused.

"Sheriff Q!" He boomed. "I want you to begin the search immediately. Have your men fan out across the property."

Sheriff Q had deputized a half dozen men who had been too infirm, old or drunk to answer the call of their country. They awaited instructions out on the front porch and, to the man, they prayed that the work would be easy and the promised pay swift.

"Now, just hold on a moment, Q," Vash said sweetly, coming to sit across from him. "I haven't finished reading this warrant thing and I've been a very poor hostess. Can I get you something to drink?" She rang a bell on the table next to her.

"Yes, ma'am, that would be great," Sheriff Q answered right away.

Kyle fumed. "No, it would not be great." He glared at the man who was supposed to be carrying out his orders. "This is a criminal matter, not a social call."

"Oh, Senator Riker, really," Vash smiled, "isn't this just more of a formality that an actual—oh, yes, a pitcher of iced tea for my guests and hurry." The house slave had barely crossed the threshold when he received the order and wordlessly backed out of the room. "Please, Kyle, do sit down." She patted the sofa next to her with a look that the flummoxed politician could only describe as flirty.

"Mrs. DeLancie, you sadly underestimate the gravity of this matter. A ring of smugglers is operating right under our noses and I have reason to suspect their headquarters is here on your property."

A dark young man returned with a tray containing a pitcher of iced tea, three glasses and small cakes. He set it down on the coffee table and began to fill the glasses.

"Senator," Vash looked up at him, "I doubt very much that anything illegal is happening here. I understand you have to check and please feel free to do so, but there's no reason we can't be civilized about this. Here, have a drink of tea before you go out and sweat all over the place."

Sheriff Q nodded. "I agree and I much appreciate it. You always have the best sweet tea."

"Why, thank you, Q," Vash purred. She hoped her stalling would enable Alynna to arrive and talk some sense into their ruffled neighbor. Really, what had gotten into Kyle to barge into her home with some warrant and demand to search her home and land?

Kyle felt the situation getting away from him. He could not let that happen. He turned his eyes away from Vash practically emasculating the sheriff, hand-feeding him lady finger cakes to go along with his tea, and his eyes fell on the young slave standing at attention in the doorframe, so as to be ready to jump to meet any further needs of his owner. Kyle stared at the young man, perhaps twenty years old. There was something about him . . . .

"You're not the one who opened the door for us, are you?" Kyle demanded of the man.

"Uh . . . ."

"Answer me!"

Vash heard the yelling. "Kyle, dear, what's the matter?" She called out casually.

He turned to her. "This is not the slave that opened the door for us. That man was older, shorter and dressed in a better jacket."

"I didn't realize that critiquing slave fashions was part of your investigation." Vash leaned toward Sheriff Q, sharing a laugh. Sheriff Q chuckled along with her.

"Where is that man?" Kyle asked.

"Oh, I don't know," Vash said dismissively, hoping to conceal the fact that, if the man was going to escape a whipping, he was probably on his way back with Alynna by now. "There's probably some crisis in the dining room that has him occupied. I'm really not worried. All of my house servants are excellent. Would you like him to get you something else to drink, something stronger than tea, perhaps?"

The fact that she was hiding something was enough for Kyle. He bounded over to the coffee table and upset the dish of cookies. "Maybe there's some crisis in the smuggling ring that has him occupied! Come on, sheriff, there's something going on here and we're going to get to the bottom of it. If you want to keep your job, you'll come now. Unless you'd rather clean your desk out tonight and enlist in the army tomorrow."

The threat worked. Sheriff Q dropped his glass on the tray with a clatter and stood up. "Now, now, no need to get all riled up." He put his hat on his head and looked out the window at his deputies, lounging about the front porch and the lawn. "We'll just get going now, and, uh, uh . . . ."

"Set two of them to search the house, top to bottom. You join the other four and cover every inch of this property, from north to south and east to west. Go!" Kyle grabbed Sheriff Q's arm and gave him a generous shove toward the door.

On his way to the grand entrance hall, Sheriff Q turned and tipped his hat to Vash. "Thank you for the tea and cakes, ma'am. Everything was delicious."

"You're very welcome. Any time," Vash called out. She had remained seated to appear unworried by the intrusion. When Kyle's attention returned to her, she resumed her efforts. "Well, senator, now that your minions are carrying out your orders, perhaps you could sit with me and explain all this warrant language." She held out a glass with a smile as sweet as the tea.

Remaining standing, Kyle accepted the glass with a thank you and quickly downed the tea. "Actually, Mrs. DeLancie, I believe I will go and supervise the inside investigation. I'm sure you have many thing inside this house that no one knows about."

Vash did, in fact, have a number of collectibles stashed throughout the house that no one knew Q and she owned. She knew she had to disarm the determined senator, before he uncovered their many secrets, which, ironically, did not include a slave smuggling ring. She decided to try a new tactic. "Senator, before you start traipsing through my house, I think it's only fair to warn you." She slid her finger along the rim of her iced tea glass provocatively.

"Warn me?" Kyle was astounded and a might insulted that this younger woman thought she could get the better of him with her feminine guiles. Of course, he did think Vash very attractive, but—no, he would not be distracted from his mission.

"Yes. The slave that you were missing is actually en route to wire my husband about this intrusion and so-called investigation. When my husband finds out that his home is being searched by the town drunks, he's going to be very angry." Vash maintained her smug, half-smiling face. "And, really, Kyle, I don't want him to be angry with you. You're such a kind, wise man. Such a pillar of our community. It would be a shame if something were to happen to damage your career."

Just then, the two men assigned to search the house walked hesitantly into the parlor. Kyle heard their shuffling feet and gave them a quick glance before returning to Vash with a cold, spiteful look on his face. "Gentlemen," he boomed to the two behind him, while keeping his eyes on Vash, "one of you go upstairs and start searching the bedrooms. The other, begin right here in this room."

"Yessir," they mumbled together.

After the first man departed, the second timidly approached Kyle. "Uh, 'scuse me, sir, what are we looking for again?"

Even more incensed than he had been, Kyle tore his eyes away from his confrontation with Vash to upbraid the man. "Haven't you been paying attention? Or did the bottle take your memory along with your ambition? We're looking for anything that indicates the owners or slaves of this house are engaged in illegal slave smuggling or _anything else that might be suspicious_."

"Wait a second!" Vash flew off the sofa. "That's too broad and vague a description. How is 'suspicious' supposed to be defined?"

"By me," Kyle thundered, all pretense of gentlemanly statesman gone. "Stand back or I will have you arrested for obstruction of justice." A flash of hatred flared in his eyes, seeming to threaten, for just a moment, violence.

Taken aback by the vehemence of his reaction—Kyle Riker, a neighbor she had known for many years and entertained in her home—Vash recalculated. With one last seductive smile to confound him, she backed away and, on her way out of the room, called, "I can't wait until my husband hears about this."

Kyle turned toward a corner of the room that he planned to ransack, where no one could see his smirk or hear him mumble to himself, "Neither can I."


	46. Chapter 46sto

Happy Friday, loyal readers! Double warning: this chapter starts with an "M" section and contains some rather shameless foreshadowing. I hope that both sections work. Thank you for reading and reviewing. Best wishes, Liz

* * *

On one of their precious nights together, Jean-Luc removed Beverly's dressing gown and stripped off his own clothes so that the two of them were standing next to the cot, naked, glistening, embracing each other, kissing and caressing.

Beverly loved the feel of his perfect body that was strong and soft in all the right places. Her hands lovingly, hungrily moved across his bulging biceps, his shoulders, the muscles of his back and down to his bottom, into which she boldly sunk her fingers. Over their time meeting secretly in Will's tent, Beverly had gradually grown more adventurous in their lovemaking sessions. She enjoyed kneading the soft flesh of Jean-Luc's attractive backside and his reaction—moaning and grinding his erection into her—showed her that he enjoyed it as well.

All the while, as she ravaged him, he was doing the same to her body, softly, then with more pressure, along her hips, her waist, her breasts. When she slid her hands to his sides, intending to travel up his torso to his armpits, he turned slightly to reach behind her, with the result that her hand accidentally brushed against his manhood.

"Unh, yes," he moaned, pushing it into her hand.

Shocked, Beverly stopped her backward movement to pull away and instead wrapped her long fingers around him. He felt warm and hard and she was excited as much as she was afraid to be touching him there. Claiming her mouth with his own, Jean-Luc began to thrust his hips so that he slid in and out of her hand. Without thinking, Beverly tightened her grip.

Both the surprise and the feeling of Beverly's hand on his cock stimulated Jean-Luc in ways he had not felt in a very long time. He kissed her madly, feeling his control of his own body threatened, feeling that he wanted to give control to the incredible woman touching him in that most intimate of embraces.

With treasonous thoughts that would surely shock her nana, Beverly abandoned a little more of what she had come to think of as her American attitude toward lovemaking and began to stroke Jean-Luc. Timidly at first, her closed hand slid up and down, over his moist, exposed head, his velvety foreskin and the rock hardness of his engorged shaft. While they were together, she had been so consumed with her own ecstatic climaxes, she now realized, that she not thought about how _she_ might pleasure _him._ Now, as she felt his manhood, the very organ that had caused her such joy, but that she knew so little of, she perceived an indebtedness that she wanted to repay and—something else. Her rosebuds hardened as she opened her eyes and stole a glance at Jean-Luc in her grasp.

Jean-Luc stopped bucking into her hand as Beverly herself began to move up and down his length. Her touch was soft yet firm and sent shivers of excitement through his loins. After a few minutes of breathless joy, he felt such a need to be inside her that he worried he would lack the stamina to bring her to ecstasy before his own urgent release.

His legs shaking, Jean-Luc guided Beverly toward the cot. When she sat down, his throbbing manhood was directly in front of her face, inside her palm. Stilling her trembling heart and her trembling conscience, Beverly leaned forward with a newly found bravery and a crazed look of want in her eye.

As she neared the head of Jean-Luc's cock, she exhaled through her open mouth and the feel of her breath made him jerk with a cry. Suddenly, he realized what she was about to do and the thrill of anticipation nearly stopped his heart. He thanked God that he had thought to set a small candle on the far end of the tent on the table, so that he could see in the flickering light the desire in Beverly's eyes and the fullness of her lips as they opened and slowly, tantalizingly slowly, closed around his head, enveloping him in the wet warmth of her mouth.

"Haaaah."

Beverly's tongue licked the underside of his cock as she took more and more of him into her mouth. Her lips reached his sensitive foreskin and again he cried out. He realized that he had thrown his head back in pleasure and closed his eyes as she surrounded him. When he opened them, he saw Beverly, the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. Her royal face and her cascading red hair, blazing in the candlelight. Her firm mounds and erect nipples, her small waist and rounded hips, her full lips taking him into her mouth, inch by inch. The sight and feel of her stimulated him beyond all reason and he felt as though he had departed from Earth and come to a world of exhilarating bliss.

Once she had him completely in her mouth, she paused, unsure what to do, tasting and feeling him. What a strange sensation, to be holding her husband's sex organ in her mouth! As he had done to her. Would he enjoy this as much as she did? Before he could show her, she intuited what to do and began to gradually back away then lean forward, easing him out then in, simulating their lovemaking, understanding without him saying that this was what he needed. As she moved, her tongue licked him along his length, over and over.

"Aanh, aanh, aanh," Jean-Luc panted each time he slid into Beverly's mouth.

Beverly felt a wild freedom and a growing excitement as she saw and heard what she was doing to Jean-Luc. She tasted salty drops of liquid, leaking from his smooth head. Feeling his urging, she moved faster, wrapping her hand around the base of his cock to help her maneuver better as Jean-Luc grew more and more frantic. She felt the now familiar wetness and longing between her legs and tried to imagine the magnificent manhood in her mouth instead thrusting inside the core of her being. To try to control his movements and keep the tip of his head from choking her in the back of her throat, she applied pressure as she took him, in and out, in and out.

Jean-Luc was on the verge of losing all control. When she squeezed him, he clutched her hair and tried not to push her head into him. All sensations amplified, all along his length, as she kept licking, squeezing and, now—dear God!—sucking him. With his other hand, he reached down and pinched her nipple, and felt the vibration as she cried out around him.

That was it. No longer able to slow his needy cock, Jean-Luc pumped faster into Beverly's mouth, holding her head in place with his hand. He was slightly aware of her moaning before complete ecstasy overtook him.

"Aaaaaaaah!"

Warm, salty liquid squirted into Beverly's mouth, nearly choking her, as it flowed down her throat. Her initial alarm passed as she realized, clinically, what had happened.

A knock outside the tent sounded less than a minute after Jean-Luc's loud, moaning climax.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Crusher?"

Beverly loosened her grip and Jean-Luc popped out of her mouth. Someone was just outside, only feet away from them.

Beverly half-choked and half-coughed. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am. It's Miles O'Brien. Our youngest, the baby, Connor, he's very sick, ma'am. My wife sent me to get you."

Beverly had jumped up and started putting her dress on. "Sick in what way? What are his symptoms?" She asked to buy more time.

"He's coughing something terrible. He feels really warm, too."

"All right. I—uh, . . . I just removed a splinter—a large splinter—from . . . someone. I'll meet you down at your tent."

"Thank you, ma'am."

They heard the Irishman's footsteps fade away down the hillside.

Catching his breath, Jean-Luc looked at Beverly, who was hurriedly putting her hair up. "A splinter?" He asked.

"You yelled! Very loudly. I had to say something."

As shaky as she had been, due to O'Brien's sudden appearance and her unexpected ingestion of Jean-Luc's release, Beverly had to giggle at the sight of her very proper husband, naked and doubled over in laughter, as quietly as he could. Her giggles quickly turned to a cough in her burned-dry throat.

Jean-Luc quickly straightened and poured her a glass of water. "Are you all right?" He asked with a hand on her shoulder as she drank.

She nodded.

Jean-Luc suddenly felt embarrassed at his breach of etiquette in not pulling himself out of her mouth. How does one discuss a woman's swallowing—

"I have to go," Beverly said, once she finished drinking. She kissed him, said, "I love you," used the candle to light the lantern, then grabbed it and her medical bag and walked out of the tent.

"I love you," Jean-Luc whispered after her, in awe of the goddess who was his wife. Pleasuring him in a most intimate act—her first time, he was sure—then rushing to help someone in need. Although her concern for the health of others had taken her away from his side, which many husbands would not tolerate, he knew, he could only admire her devotion to her duty. Expecting her to return soon, he lay down on the cot to dream about her until then.

If Beverly had forgotten where the O'Brien tent was, all she had to do was follow the sounds of crying and coughing, which carried across the depression. She found Miles standing outside the tent holding Miles, Jr., whose tired cries disturbed the silence of the sleeping company. She stopped at the pair and felt Miles, Jr.'s forehead, which was cool. Her touch startled the boy enough to make him stop crying and she rubbed his cheeks and back as she looked him over medically.

"Sssh, there, there, Miles, Jr.," she said softly. "I know you must be very tired and we're going to find a place for you to get some sleep. Would you like a treat?" She continued to rub his back.

The little boy nodded.

"I'll make you up a treat, but only if you try to stay quiet. Can you do that?"

He nodded again.

"Good. Then you rest your head on your dad's shoulder," and as he complied, "Good, just like that." She rubbed his back soothingly a few more times, then whispered to Miles, Sr. "The baby is in the tent?"

"Yes, with Keiko and Molly."

Miles, Jr. lifted his head, but Beverly gently pushed it back down. "Uh-uh, no treat unless you stay quiet with daddy while I check on your baby brother. Got it?"

The toddler was unsure what to make of this nice, unfamiliar woman who promised him a treat. Whenever he put his head on his daddy's shoulder, he felt like he was falling asleep and he did not want to miss the treat. The rubbing on his back made him tired, too.

Miles's hand took the place of Beverly's as she ducked inside the family's crowded tent. Molly was sound asleep in the middle of the one bed and Keiko paced the floor with the baby, Connor, whose little body was wracked with terrible coughing.

"Oh, Dr. Crusher, thank God, you've come," Keiko said.

Beverly noticed that the thin woman looked ill herself, dark circles under her eyes and strands of hair flying loose from the bun on her head that made her appear as though she had not slept in days. Perhaps, Beverly thought, she _had_ been awake. She reached out and took the baby from Keiko, resting him on her hip while examining him with her other hand.

Tiny Connor O'Brien, less than a year old, but big for his age, was gasping for air and seemed to cough when he did have enough. His forehead was warm and he appeared highly distressed, which only made his attempts to breathe more difficult. As she held him, he took in air through his mouth then produced a loud barking cough.

"How long has he been like this?" She asked Keiko.

"This is the second night. It's worse than yesterday."

"Do you have a tea kettle?"

"Yes."

"Start a fire, fill the kettle with water and put it on."

"Yes, doctor." Before she could move, Keiko had to ask something. "Doctor, is he going to die?"

Beverly looked up from her patient. "No, I don't think so. We just have to help him breathe more easily."

"We can do that?"

Beverly nodded. "Yes." When she saw that Keiko did not look convinced, she elaborated. "I've seen this before and I know how to treat it."

"Oh." Keiko looked as though she wanted to believe. "The army doctor told us . . . . He told us there was nothing he could do, that Connor was going to . . . ."

"Well, he was wrong," Beverly said confidently. "Please get the kettle on and I'm going to need a blanket."

After a long ninety minutes sitting on a stool next to the boiling tea kettle, under a blanket to trap the steam, Beverly and Keiko had very little progress and considerably poorer consequences to show for their efforts. Connor still coughed and fussed, his parents were still agitated, and, worst of all, the commotion had woken Molly and re-awoken Miles, Jr., who alternated between whining and bawling. Several of the men closest to the O'Briens had also woken and begun milling about. When Beverly peeled off the blanket from the three of them to refill the tea kettle again, she was met by the small crowd of sleep-deprived soldiers.

"Come on, Miles, we've got to get some sleep!"

"I don't mind your family, but, good God, man, it's the middle of the night."

"Can't you shut that baby up?"

Beverly took Miles, Jr. from his father while the beleaguered man tried to placate his neighbors. Both boys were inconsolable. The tense and tiring situation became even worse when an unsteady Molly wobbled out of the family's tent looking for her mother and nearly fell into the fire.

"Molly!" Keiko screamed, almost dropping Connor and likely waking up even more of the troops.

Beverly caught Molly's arm, but the little girl began to cry out of fright and fatigue.

"O'Brien, I just want to go to sleep!"

"Get them all back in your tent!"

"Shut up out there!"

"Mom," Wesley emerged from the dark, "can I do anything to help?"

Exhausted but still sharp, Beverly immediately dispatched him for more water and tasked him with figuring out a way to bring water up from the creek while the kettle was on, so that they would never run out. Wesley hoisted Molly on to his shoulders with the promise of diverting nighttime trips to the creek and to the cook's tent to borrow a large pot.

"Beverly?" Keiko pleaded for Beverly to look at Connor.

Screaming with what little voice he had left, Miles, Jr. began to thrash about in Beverly's arms, as if trying to break free. She looked for Miles to take him, but he was still occupied with the men. Her soothing sounds and touches had no effect.

"Please," Keiko begged.

"I'm . . . ," Miles, Jr. aimed an open fist at her jaw, "trying."

"Here, let me take him."

Beverly spun in the direction of the offer of help and found Corporal Odan standing there in his uniform pants, long undershirt and suspenders. Despite her urgent need for assistance, her anger at his sudden involvement in her business flared and shone on her face.

"I have nieces and nephews. I have experience with little guys." Odan held out his arms. "And I have candy." He pulled out a peppermint stick from his pants pocket, but even the mention of the word had miraculously drawn Miles, Jr.'s attention and stilled his movements and noises.

Beverly made a quick decision. "Here." She thrust Miles, Jr. into Odan's arms and, gliding to where Keiko sat, near the fire, examined little Connor. She was sure that the baby's condition was not fatal, but we would need to be in a humid environment to open up his passages and let him breathe easier. She put a hand on his forehead—he was warm, still, but his fever was not any worse, which was a good sign. Keiko's appearance, however, had deteriorated. Beverly began to wonder if she were going to fall ill herself from exhaustion.

Beverly checked Keiko for fever. "Keiko, you need sleep. Go into your tent and nurse Connor, then I'll take him and you can get some rest."

Nothing worked as she had hoped. Connor would not nurse, Miles, Jr. proved too tired to enjoy the peppermint candy and Molly arrived with Wesley, frantic to find her mother. Wesley put the kettle on the fire as Beverly tried to calm Molly and the growing group of awakened soldiers renewed their protests. What more could go wrong, Beverly wondered.

Her question was answered when Captain Jean-Luc Picard strode into the scrum of increasingly angry men. His arrival immediately hushed all adults.

"Excuse me," Jean-Luc said, trying to appear sympathetic rather than authoritarian, but his strained casual manner, never experienced by his men, made him appear somewhat awkward. "I heard the commotion and wanted to see what was going on." It would be completely natural, he told himself, for a captain to want to check on the well-being of his men, who were awake and arguing in the middle of the night, and, indeed, that was his secondary motive. No one, he thought, would suspect that his primary reason for interrupting was to catch a glimpse of Beverly at her work.

Downcast eyes and shuffling greeted Jean-Luc's question. Their aggressiveness held in check by the captain's appearance, no one wanted to admit to badgering the poor father with sick children. Miles, again holding his oldest son, knew it was his place to speak, but he needed time to think of some kind of acceptable answer for his commanding officer, whose presence made thinking that much more difficult.

Beverly industriously avoided eye contact by unnecessarily checking on the kettle. She was surprised by and angry with Jean-Luc for coming down there. There was no need for him to get out of bed—where everyone else thought he had been—get dressed in his full uniform, which he was wearing, and come down the hill in the dead of the night, except his own curiosity. He had put them at risk of discovery by joining her in the same public location after they had striven so hard to avoid each other. She dared not look at him and prayed his eyes were not on her.

Finally, someone stepped forward to speak. "Captain, sir, we're getting things quieted down. We just have a sick child, but Mrs. Crusher here is tending to him. It won't be long before all is quiet and peaceful again." Odan spoke with an optimism Beverly did not feel and she stared at him in astonishment tinged with exasperation. Why was this man being so helpful? Why in the world had he said that things were nearly under control when the truth was far from that? What would Jean-Luc make of Odan's presence?

Odan's confident response stunned Jean-Luc, not the least because he had not expected the corporal to be there at all, much less standing so close to Beverly.

Stealing as long a look as she dared at Jean-Luc, Beverly read the range of his emotions in his face—confusion, alarm, jealousy and his attempt to cover up all of those reactions. When he briefly caught her eyes, she radiated only anger at him for complicating matters.

"I, uh, I see," Jean-Luc managed to get out. He turned to the sleepy crowd and found his voice. "Then the rest of you can go back to your tents. No doubt the crying awakened you, but you won't fall back asleep while standing around and yelling. I do not expect to see you out here again tonight. Morning will come early enough."

Behind Beverly, Wesley exhaled.

The men began to disperse, leaving Jean-Luc with the O'Brien family, the Crushers and Odan. Wesley tried, unsuccessfully, to comfort the whimpering Molly. Miles tried to speak to the captain over his son's wailing. Beverly chanced another look at Jean-Luc.

While he tried to arrange his face into a neutrally interested, but not too interested, expression, Beverly had no difficulty assuming the role that she to play with respect to him. Anyone who happened to look would have seen her shoot daggers at the captain, ostensibly for his past conduct toward her, but in reality, in anger that he had intruded. She was about to say something to him, when Molly, tears on her face, walked up and stood in front of him.

Forced to look down into the young girl's face for the first time, Jean-Luc was at a loss as to what to do. As she clearly appeared distressed, he tried to smile. She stared at him. "You must be Miss O'Brien," he tried, his deep voice a little too loud.

Molly screamed and ran to her father. "Papa, that man scared me. He's scary." She hugged his leg and nearly knocked him and her brother over.

Miles was mortified. "Captain, I'm sorry, she just, uh . . . ."

Beverly looked at the ground, trying, unsuccessfully, to hide her amusement. Her enjoyment was not lost on her husband, who blushed in embarrassment.

For the second time, Odan sprang into action. "Have no worries, captain. We'll get everyone off to bed." As he tried to reassure his captain, Odan walked toward Miles and the children, passing by Beverly as he said "bed," which caused Jean-Luc to squirm.

Attributing the captain's discomfort to the children and the disruption in his camp, Odan hustled the O'Briens back to their tent, leaving Wesley, Beverly and Jean-Luc.

Unsure if anyone were still watching, Jean-Luc played it safe. "Well, uh, thank you for your help, Mrs. Crusher. I'm sure the O'Briens appreciate it. If you should need anything . . . please let Mr. Riker know."

Beverly looked into this eyes for the first time in public. "Thank you, captain. I apologize for waking you—"

"Not at all."

"—and I think you can resume your sleep without any further risk of disruption from _anyone."_ She could have merely been conveying a coded message to inform him that she would be needed there for an extended period of time, but her emphasis on the last word, along with her stiff body language and flaming eyes, bitingly conveyed her current mood.

Jean-Luc bristled and simply stared into her defiant face for a moment, unsure whether she was acting for the benefit of any prying eyes or sincerely angry with him. Her intensity struck him as rather too overdone for acting, but he did not know what he had done to bring forth such wrath. Unless it was

When he finally decided not to respond, then nodded and walked away, Wesley exhaled again. "Mom, that was a little harsh, don't you think?"

"He shouldn't have come down here. He—"

Odan stepped out of the tent. "The older kids are trying to go to sleep with Miles but the baby's still having trouble breathing."

Beverly nodded and they all looked to the tea kettle that was not yet whistling. "He needs to breathe in humid air, but when we sat with him under the blanket, he was too fussy. I need some way to get the steam from the kettle into a small space where the baby can still have room to move a little . . . ."

After the three of them stood silent a moment, Wesley lit up. "I know!" The others looked at him. "I saw these reeds by the creek. They're strong, but flexible. We could build a fire by my tent to heat the water. Then, connect the reeds to the spout of the kettle and run them into my tent. It's a small space and you can stay there with the baby. I'll keep the kettle full."

Odan jumped in. "I'll help. I can build a fire while you get some reeds to get us started." He looked at Beverly. "Will that work?"

Looking at the fire as she considered the idea, she began to nod. "Yes, I think it's worth trying. I'll take the baby then the rest of the family can get some sleep."

"Let's go." With that informal order, Odan led Wesley off.

Two and a half hours later, Beverly lay in her son's small, steam-filled tent, next to Connor, who coughed occasionally in his sleep. She was just about to fall asleep herself, when Odan—who had taken it upon himself to keep the tea kettle full of boiling water after insisting Wesley sleep in his tent—stuck his head inside.

"Do you need anything?" He asked, then lowered his voice to a whisper upon seeing the baby asleep. "Any food? A drink of water?"

"No. The baby fell asleep and I was going to take a nap myself."

"All right, I'll keep an eye on the tea kettle."

"Lt. Odan?"

"Yes."

Beverly's anger at him had long since vanished, but she did not want the man to get the wrong impression. "I appreciate your helpfulness, but don't think that anything you've done—or could do—will change my opinion."

Odan smiled. "I would hope that your opinion of me is improving."

"It's not going to improve as much as you hope. I promise you that." Beverly was firm and frowning. After she spoke, she lay her head down and closed her eyes.

Even more besotted with her than before, Odan let his glance linger on her reclining body for a few illicit seconds before he returned to his fireside vigil.

Listening to Connor's ragged breathing, Beverly tried to calm her mind enough to join him in slumber. Her thoughts quickly skimmed along Odan's overly enthusiastic involvement with the O'Briens and her and what it might mean. She swept briefly past her ire at Jean-Luc's abrupt appearance last night. More time-consuming was her vivid memory of their unusual—at least for her—lovemaking and whatever line of propriety she may have crossed. It had caused so many new sensations, caressing his manhood with her mouth. Truthfully, it was a little physically uncomfortable, yet, the act had excited Jean-Luc so much that she had felt aroused herself watching him react. Would she do it again? It seemed so sinful, but so . . . thrilling. She pulled the scratchy blanket up to her chin, unconsciously covering her body out of shame as well as the night chill.

She opened her eyes as Connor coughed, but the small boy remained asleep. The sustained moisture in the air was definitely helping him. She carefully brushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead as she beheld him, with his mother's black hair and his eyes and face shaped more like his father's. Miles, Jr. and Molly, in contrast, looked more like Keiko. Suddenly, her mind wandered back to Molly's disastrous interaction with Jean-Luc.

During his brief interaction with Molly O'Brien, Beverly had seen his face display negative emotions that encompassed the gamut from fear to distaste. If she knew her husband as well as she thought she did, nothing even remotely positive entered his mind as the little girl interacted with him—or became afraid to do so. Did Jean-Luc even like children? Like so many topics, they had never discussed it before they married. As an older woman and a widow, she had not given any thought to having another child in years.

Now, however, she had an opportunity. What if she became pregnant? What kind of father would Jean-Luc be? Although she had not grown up in a well-to-do family such as the Picards, she imagined the parent-child relationship in such a household as a more distant one than she thought ideal. A father, she reflected, should love and play with a child and show a son what being a man meant.

She abruptly stopped that train of thought as she realized she was thinking of Jack, who had been an involved, doting father to Wesley. It was unrealistic, she knew, to expect Jean-Luc to be like Jack. Her new husband came from a very different culture, plus he had been away from children and families for most of his life while he was at sea. He likely knew nothing of children. Did he hate them, a voice in the back of her mind whispered nervously. He might.

The bugle sounded reveille. Beverly yawned. Next to her, Connor still dozed. She closed her eyes, deciding it was pointless to fret about Jean-Luc's affinity for children when she did not even know for sure if she would have a baby. As she well knew, women her age sometimes could not conceive. No sense in worrying about something that might never happen, she yawned, deciding that sleep would be a much more productive use of her time.


	47. Chapter 47

Hello All, posting this hastily, hopefully without typos, etc. I should have more coming soon. Thank you, thank you, for continuing to read. Be well, Liz

* * *

The day that Jean-Luc had dreaded more than any other finally arrived. He cuddled with Beverly a little longer that morning, straining to commit her scent and feel to his memory, for it would have to last him a long time. Q had gone over the travel plans with him the night before. This would be their last day in the Carolinas.

"Jean-Luc, what's wrong?"

Spooning with her husband—the most comfortable position for two people on the impossibly small cot—Beverly felt his body tense, even as he continued to caress her in the twilight of the pre-dawn.

"You can always tell when something's wrong, can't you?" He was constantly impressed by her intuition.

"With you, yes." She turned her head to find his worried brow. "What is it?"

He buried his face in her hair, making her turn away. That's when she knew.

"Jean-Luc," she said quietly, facing the tent wall, "you don't want me to go with you, do you?"

"You know that's not it."

"But, you want to send me back." It was not a question, much as Beverly wanted—needed—him to respond in the negative.

He paused. "I've given this a great deal of thought. If I believed I could keep you safe, from Q as well as from the enemy, nothing would make me happier than to have you with me."

"Jean-Luc—"

"Most of the other captains agree with me."

"Not all of them."

"No, there are some who believe that having their families nearby improves soldiers' morale, but . . . . I have a lifetime of experience that is telling me otherwise."

Beverly was not about to give up. Half playful and half angry, she asked him, "What about your recent experiences? Has your morale improved since I've been here?" She gingerly twisted around to face him on the cot.

He wanted to take the bait. He wanted to smile, kiss her, make love to her and keep her with him forever. But, he could not bear the thought of seeing her die, possibly because of a mistake he made, an order he gave.

His hesitation tipped her balance between humor and ire. "You don't have to do this."

Jean-Luc noticed the change in her voice and he held her tighter. He leaned toward her to kiss her, but she leaned backward, away from him. Stunned, he could not say anything at first. When he finally put his thoughts into words, he voice begged her. "Beverly, _mon amour,_ please believe me this is not a decision I make lightly, nor one I'm at all happy about."

The pain crackled in his voice and shaded his hazel eyes. She closed her eyes, as if that would make the pain disappear. He only had her safety in mind, she knew, and he wanted to be with her as much as she wanted to stay with him. She sensed no deceit in him. Part of her knew she should trust his military assessment of the risks of staying, but accepting that truth meant paying an enormous emotional price. She felt incapable of leaving him, terrified of living without him. Tears burning her face, she covered and squeezed his hand that circled her waist. They lay like that silently for a few more precious moments.

"Beverly?" He asked timidly.

"Yes?"

"Are you still angry?"

A pause. "Yes, but . . . maybe not at you.

Jean-Luc gently kissed the tears on her cheeks, then brushed against her lips and sought permission to enter her mouth. Sending her away was contrary to everything his mind and body told him to do, but, nevertheless, he would force himself to do so for her safety. Nothing was more important to him than Beverly's life—more important, even, than her love—and he would do everything within his power to keep her alive. His own sacrifice, of having her in his life every night, having a companion and a lover with whom he could share his thoughts and affections, was miniscule compared to protecting Beverly. In the meantime, with his tender, delicate kiss, he tried to show her all the love that he felt for her, holding and caressing her as their mouths shared a joyous intimacy.

When he broke away, still holding her tightly, and she had caught her breath, Beverly resumed the conversation. "When will I see you again?"

He stared at her, drinking in the sight of her porcelain skin and patrician face. "There haven't been any major battles since the summer. If nothing significant erupts, we may get home for Christmas. We haven't had any leave, so we're due."

Beverly nodded. Less than three months away, a shorter time than their last separation. But so much had happened since then. In their nights together, Jean-Luc and she had grown closer, talking of their plans for married life, sharing laughs and stories, and, of course, making love so tenderly. Now that she would know well what she was missing by being separated from Jean-Luc, the lonely months would be physically painful.

Jean-Luc was finding it difficult to breathe. His heart pounded in his chest. "Will you ever forgive me?"

Beverly reassured him with her steady gaze. "I've already forgiven you. I'm just horribly sad about leaving you."

Jean-Luc reminded her that his term in the Confederate Army was meant to be temporary. "I'm expecting to hear from my friend in New York soon. Depending on what he tells me, we may be able to get Wesley out of here before we engage in any serious fighting."

Beverly lay a palm on his cheek. Saving her son was how they had ended up in this precarious position. Jean-Luc had risked his life to get Wesley to safety. She recalled how he had selflessly volunteered to protect Wesley, making the decision immediately after learning of Wesley's plight. His commitment to her son spoke volumes of his love for her and she had told her, so soon after she had accepted his marriage proposal, that he was most definitely the right man. Staring into his eyes, a new thought occurred to her. "Jean-Luc, if you're able to sneak Wesley out of the army and spirit him away to the North, what would happen to you? Would you go with him? Would you stay here?"

Jean-Luc looked down for a moment, signaling the bad news he had to deliver. "Beverly, anyone who simply leaves his post in the military is considered a deserter. Now, the status won't be a problem for Wesley," he reassured her, after seeing alarm in her eyes, "because he will begin his studies in the north and be able to return when he's finished and the war is over.

"If I were to desert, I would also not be able to return until the war is over."

"When do you think that will be?"

Jean-Luc paused to consider his response. "I can't tell for certain, but once the fighting gets underway in earnest, I believe the south will fall fairly quickly. At the latest, I would say, within a year"

"A year? That's such a long time." She snuggled closer to him, fitting her head in the crook of his neck and kissing his chest.

"A year at the latest." He kissed the top of her head and held her tighter. "It may very well end sooner." Belying his words, dark remembrances of war's damage and danger began to infringe on his thoughts. He closed his eyes and tried to focus only on Beverly's body, her scent. To insulate her from his threatened change in mood, he cracked, "Just imagine how lovely it will be for us to be together in an actual bed."

Beverly thought of her nights sleeping in his large four-poster bed. "We'll hardly know what to do with all that space."

"Oh, don't worry," Jean-Luc said, his voice deep and sultry, " _I_ will know what to do."

Despite the emotions summersaulting in her stomach, Beverly laughed and lifted her head to see desire in her husband's face. _Oh, he does know what to do,_ she smiled and kissed him passionately, her body immediately responding and hoping for a demonstration of the ideas she saw in his hungry eyes.

The announcement was made to the company first thing in the morning. After breakfast, Will gathered the Crushers, Barclays and O'Briens at a location central to the three tents. The day was warming up nicely, with just a lazy breeze tickling the still mostly green autumn leaves. Will took a moment to notice the reds and yellows scattered among the foliage as he waited for the captain. By mutual agreement, the two officers had arranged for Will to get everyone together and for Jean-Luc to deliver the news, a plan that met both men's wishes as Will did not want to give the order himself and Jean-Luc did not want to have to wait—while avoiding eye contact with Beverly—for everyone to converge.

Once everyone was there, Will stepped away from the group and waved an arm in the air, the signal for Jean-Luc to walk down into the camp. Standing near Will, Beverly thought the topography darkly symbolic: Jean-Luc, like Zeus, descending from Mount Olympus to impose his will on the people of Earth, his decision wreaking havoc on their lives, just like those of the capricious god. She knew the comparison was unfair and she was surprised to find that she was no longer angry with Jean-Luc. As much as she disagreed with him and felt sick about leaving, she loved him and understood that he thought he was making the best choice under the difficult circumstances. She just did not like it.

The unexpected appearance of the captain before they were ready to begin their hike drew a small group of soldiers whose tents were nearby to quietly form behind Jean-Luc. If he noticed them, he ignored their presence. Will was occupied keeping an eye on Miles and Reg Barclay, for whom the captain's announcement would be unwelcome news.

"Gentlemen, and ladies," Jean-Luc began, his eyes sweeping across the group, only briefly in Beverly's direction, and his official voice coated in courtesy, "I asked to speak with you because I've made a decision about the inclusion of women and families with the company. I'm afraid that I cannot guarantee your safety in northern Virginia, therefore I cannot allow you to accompany us. You will have to return home tomorrow when we leave."

"Captain—" Miles and Reg both spoke at once.

"I want you to know," Jean-Luc continued, "that I am not insensitive to your plight and I have given the matter much thought. However, my decision stands."

Nella elbowed Reg in the ribs.

"Uh, c-c-captain, excuse m-me?"

Will glared at Reg.

"What is it, Mr. Barclay?" Jean-Luc's booming confidence drowned out Reg's nervous stutter.

"I-uh, it's j-just, my w-w-wife has b-been helping the c-cook a lot and I thought—"

Jean-Luc nodded at Nella with a tight smile. "Yes, thank you, Mrs. Barclay, for your service to our company. I will be happy to send you a formal letter of appreciation."

Wesley looked at his mother. If Nella were going to get a letter from the captain, he felt his mother was certainly entitled to the same recognition for all her medical aid to the men. Beverly returned his gaze with a warning not to say anything.

Jean-Luc seemed to read their minds. "Of course, I will do the same for Mrs. Crusher." He nodded at Wesley, his eyes not quite travelling the extra feet to where Beverly stood.

"C-c-captain, it's just that I thought, m-maybe we could u-use my wife's c-cooking skills in Virgina," Reg said, after another poke in his side.

"We'll have to get by with our company cook," Will answered.

Beverly had seen a commotion out of the corner of her eye and, as it grew larger, she turned to look past the Barclays at Keiko O'Brien, holding a now healthy Connor, who was frantically and too loudly whispering and tugging on her husband's arm.

"Please, Miles, say something. How will we live on our own? We have nothing."

Not wishing to upset the captain, who clearly would not entertain any contrary suggestions, Miles tried to shush his wife. His attention alternated between the captain and an increasingly desperate Keiko.

"Miles, we can't go back. We'll starve!"

"Very well," Jean-Luc announced, "I will see to it that you have sufficient provisions for the trip and I wish you all safe travels—"

"Excuse me, captain!"

Jean-Luc froze.

Wesley and Will inhaled and held their breaths.

The Barclays, O'Briens and some of the other men surrounding the group stopped what they were doing.

Beverly herself was shocked to hear her own voice addressing Jean-Luc in front of his men. And so firmly, without the fear that everyone except Will seemed to feel when speaking to him.

A few eavesdropping men moved closer to the group, lured by the promise of an interesting exchange between Wesley's mysterious red-haired mother and the man who had jilted her.

Jean-Luc regained his composure and, as etiquette demanded, looked at her, utterly aghast, she knew, but outwardly calm. "Yes, Mrs. Crusher?"

All of a sudden, Beverly felt quite intimidated by the man who had made love to her only an hour before. Standing stiffly erect in his uniform, his face a stern mask of authority, Jean-Luc was an imposing figure. She had to think clearly to explain what his decision would mean to the O'Brien family without embarrassing them or him. Why had she not thought of this before, she chided herself. That everyone—including an incredulous Will—was staring at her did not help her internal deliberations.

"Captain . . . I'd like to ask you to reconsider your decision."

Will's eyes, round in astonishment, telegraphed stop! to her.

Jean-Luc was more than startled. He was, of course, unaccustomed to having his orders challenged. To have a civilian take issue with an order was a breach of even greater magnitude. And for that civilian to be Beverly, to whom he had explained his reasoning and who had agreed to return home not an hour earlier, _and who was not supposed to speak to him in public,_ was utterly inexplicable and unacceptable.

He maintained eye contact easily with her now, his growing fury successfully concealing any affection he might otherwise accidentally show her. "Mrs. Crusher, I believe I made myself clear that my decision was carefully considered and not subject to revision."

For her part, Beverly was not about to back down. "Yes, captain, you did."

Will breathed a sigh of relief, which was interrupted when she continued.

"But, I believe there may be circumstances of which you were not aware that might have had a bearing on your decision had you known of them."

Wondering why she had not mentioned these circumstances until now, Jean-Luc continued to glare at her. To all watchers, it appeared that the captain was speechless with anger at having his orders questioned, which was, in part, an accurate assessment.

Miles was now trying to get Beverly's attention, shaking his head violently to get her to curtail her challenge.

"Miles, please," Keiko begged.

Beverly looked at Miles, but, consumed by what she saw as her unique ability to persuade the captain, she would not abandon her personal mission to advocate for his family.

"Please, captain, at least give me a chance to explain."

Jean-Luc was completely befuddled. He was angry with Beverly for questioning his order, but he also trusted her enough that he wanted to hear her reason. As he fumbled mentally for a way to retain the respect of his men, but give her a fair hearing, he noticed a silent exchange between Miles O'Brien and her—a communication that would not have taken place when his men were at attention.

"Mr. O'Brien? Is there something you'd like to say to me?"

Turning red, Miles looked as though he would prefer to crawl into the very earth on which he stood, rather than answer the captain. "Uh, no, no sir."

"Mi-iles, please."

"Does Mrs. O'Brien have something to say to me?"

The prospect of his wife speaking to Captain Picard frightened Miles even more. "No, sir," he answered quickly.

Both officers looked to Keiko. Tears forming in her eyes, she looked at her husband, knowing she would never cross him.

Beverly, on the other hand, had no qualms about crossing either Keiko's or her own husband. "Captain?" She breathed, sounding less confident, although she was just as determined to get her message across. "May I speak?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Jean-Luc saw a larger crowd gathering. He looked at Riker, who almost imperceptibly shook his head. He looked back at O'Brien, still on edge, then he knew how to proceed.

"We will take this matter up in private. Mr. O'Brien, Mrs. Crusher."

With that announcement he walked briskly up the hill toward his canvas office, not bothering to check if the two people he had named were following him. He knew that they were.

In addition, Nella Barclay had joined the increasingly nervous Beverly and Miles, eager to share her opinions with the captain, despite her husband's attempt to vocalize his displeasure. Riker reminded everyone that they plenty of work to do before they departed, then, as the men scattered to their tasks, he headed uphill himself with some trepidation.

Composing his speech as he walked back to his tent, Jean-Luc was essentially sure of what he was going to say when he turned around and saw that Nella had followed Beverly, Miles and him into the room that served as both his office and his bedroom. He felt distinctly uncomfortable hosting the two women in his personal space.

"Mrs. Barclay—"

"Captain, please, if I could just be allowed to speak?"

 _No, you may not,_ Jean-Luc silently fumed. It was completely contrary to military protocol to have his troops question his orders. Therein, of course, lay the problem because Nella and Beverly were not his troops. Since he was granting Beverly and Miles the courtesy of bringing their case, he felt that he had to similarly allow Nella to speak. Not to mention that, outside of military formality, Southern courtesy required him to do so.

"Very well, Mrs. Barclay," he managed. "What did you wish to say?"

Nella spoke with an assertiveness that Beverly had never heard from her before. "Captain, all of us women have been very helpful in the camp. The cook was overwhelmed with preparing the amount of food necessary to feed this unit." She gestured toward Beverly, on the other side of Miles. "Mrs. Crusher helps with sewing and healing. I'm sure Keiko will soon be able to help with the laundry. And having Keiko here has been so very good for Miles. Husbands need their wives near them, captain. My Reg has told me that he's shooting straighter and has more energy for marches now that I'm here. It's good for the men and we're improving morale for the whole, the whole . . . ."

"Company," Beverly supplied, keeping her disbelieving eyes on Nella.

"Company," Nella echoed, "the whole company." All of a sudden, pausing to breathe, she turned to Miles. "Wouldn't you say it's been a good thing for you, having your wife here, Mr. O'Brien?"

Miles stammered non-coherently, hoping to not have to provide an answer.

"Please, Mr. O'Brien," Jean-Luc ordered.

"Well, sir, . . . uh, meaning no disrespect. I know you've served a long time before you were married. But, as a married man, it is a comfort to know that your family is safe and right here with you. You see, you worry about them when you're not with them. There's something very, uh, soothing to lie down at night with your wife by your side, kissing your children and tucking them in. Sir."

The picture O'Brien painted—the sentimentality of which he would have rudely dismissed a year ago—affected Jean-Luc deeply, as he stood only feet away from his own wife. He dared not look at Beverly and she kept her eyes on the ground or on Miles, who was now entrusted by Keiko to speak up for their fragile family. As a result, they both missed the mist that clouded each other's eyes after hearing Miles's unexpected eloquence.

After a quiet several seconds, Jean-Luc resumed. "Very well. If that is all—"

"Excuse me, Captain." As before, it was not a timid question, but a demand to be heard.

Quite out of patience for further demands from civilians, Jean-Luc breathed in and frowned at the woman who had spoken, Beverly. "Mrs. Crusher, I believe I have heard from everyone at this point with all comments pertinent to the situation." His voice was louder than before.

"Respectfully, Captain, I disagree." Beverly's tone was even, but firmer than before.

Jean-Luc had had enough. Whatever in the world possessed Beverly to continually challenge him, he would have to figure out later in private. For now, in front of his soldiers, he resolved to restore order. "Mrs. Crusher," he emphasized her title and last name, "I have heard every possible argument in favor of the women staying with the company and I have made my decision."

"Wait a minute, Captain Picard," Nella piped up.

Jean-Luc and Beverly looked at her, shocked.

"You haven't listened to Bev—Mrs. Crusher—at all," Nella continued. "She's been trying to say something to you and you just keep interrupting her and, and . . . ." Nella suddenly felt the weight of Jean-Luc's past injustice toward Beverly upon her. Although she had not particularly cared for the midwife and felt no particular kinship toward her—in fact, over the years, she had often thought of the redhead as a rival for the affections of single men—Beverly had been a helpful traveling companion and she had cured Reg of a rash on his feet. Beverly had shown nothing but kindness and grace toward Nella and everyone else. Despite her past mistrust, Nella felt compelled to speak up for the other woman. "You're disrespecting her." She very nearly referred to the captain's past indiscretions, but she thought of her husband, serving under Captain Picard's command, and how he would certainly be, at the least, embarrassed by such an outburst or, at worst, subject to retaliation by Picard if _he_ were embarrassed.

Jean-Luc fought valiantly to control his ire, closing his fists without realizing it and attempting deep breaths, as he had learned in his travels to the Orient. His emotion flashed in his eyes, visible to Beverly as she tore her gaze away from the surprising Nella to glance at Jean-Luc. His stern face looked nothing like that of her husband when they made love. She suspected that only Miles—who was now taking small, unobtrusive steps backward—was sufficiently prepared for the wrath of Captain Jean-Luc Picard that they were about to experience. Indeed, when Jean-Luc spoke, his raised voice was that of a military commander.

"Mrs. Barclay, I remind you that you are requesting of me permission to live among the military and, at the same time, disrespecting the very chain of command that you would need to follow in order to successfully do so. Your safety and your very life might well depend on your listening to and immediately carrying out my orders. Nothing in this entire conversation has convinced me of the ability of any of the women currently _visiting_ the company to do so."

Beverly smarted at his snippy characterization of her as unable to follow his orders. In private, he knew damn well that she would do so. Didn't he?

"I alone am in charge of this company, which means that I alone make decisions and issue orders, which _will_ be followed. Now, I have heard more than enough to proceed and I will ask you all to return to the main camp after Mrs. Crusher has had a chance to speak her piece."

As livid as he was with the situation, Jean-Luc agreed that Beverly had not been given—in public at least—an opportunity to raise the issue that had occurred to her earlier and necessitated the entire aggravating exchange in his tent. He considered it only fair to allow her speak before he dismissed the three of them.

He turned his petulant face, angular in its anger, to Beverly and the coldness she saw sent a shiver through her. She cleared her throat.

"Well, Captain, I thought that you might be unfamiliar with some of the customs of local people and aspects of this situation—"

Jean-Luc nodded. "Thank you, but I believe I am well-acquainted with how people live in the land that has been my residence for over a year and the home of my family for over twenty years." His mouth tightened into an artificial smile and his voice contained even more veiled hostility

Next to Beverly, O'Brien, used to hearing orders barked by that voice, was taken aback by the captain using such a tone with a lady. Having come to idolize Captain Picard over the last several months, Miles hated seeing the man treat the woman with whom he had had some past romantic entanglement so poorly. With no intention of defending Beverly, he simply stood at attention, praying that he would be able to leave the captain's tent and scrutiny as soon as possible.

Stunned by Jean-Luc's antagonism, Beverly considered the remark a sign that all gloves were off. "I thought, _Captain,_ that I was going to be allowed to speak."

Miles shrunk back from the fury in her voice. With a quick sideways glance, he saw that Beverly's body had stiffened and her hands were clenched into fists, much like the captain's. He remembered the stories that men in the county told of how other men—never themselves—had been shot down by Beverly's sharp tongue. The last thing he wanted to witness was the same fate meeting the captain.

"Res _pect_ fully," Beverly added.

If she had seemed afraid to look at the captain before, Beverly was more than making up for it now. Her eyes blazed fire in his direction. For his part, Jean-Luc appeared locked in place, a worthy opponent for her challenge. Miles looked down at the ground, wishing he were anywhere but here. Nella, on the other hand, was mesmerized.

"Was there a particular point that you wished to make, Mrs. Crusher?" His derision and impatience were obvious.

"Yes, Captain, there was." Beverly took a deep breath and exhaled audibly. "Keiko O'Brien has three small children to take care of and she can't work to support them. The people back home shun her because she's of Japanese descent. No one will take her in or help her. She'll have to rely on charity from the church and she'll be the last in line for that. So, unless you can guarantee that her husband's pay will get to her quickly and regularly, she will need to stay with her husband to keep feeding her babies and herself."

Miles O'Brien stood glued to the floor of the tent. Mrs. Crusher's voice easily matched the captain's in anger, if not volume and pitch. Having bared the shame that he would never have admitted, she now stood, her face approaching the color of her hair, her body trembling with rage and her eyes fixed on the captain's. She frightened him.

Jean-Luc gripped the back of his chair tightly to anchor himself and rein in his anger. He spoke tightly and slowly. "Thank you, Mrs. Crusher, for that explanation." He turned to Nella. "And thank you, Mrs. Barclay, for your contribution. I will certainly consider your comments, ladies, in my final decision, which I would now like to communicate to Mr. O'Brien in private, if you don't mind."

"Not at all, Captain." Her cheeks hot with embarrassment and ire, Beverly rapidly exited the tent and nearly ran into Will, who had been standing guard and eavesdropping just outside the doorway.

Thinking better of saying anything further, Nella followed her out and scampered down the hill to her husband.

"Mr. O'Brien," the captain's deep voice directed at him stung Miles back to attention, "if I am to understand correctly, your serving here has been an economic hardship for your family?"

"Well . . . ," Miles had not wanted to admit it, but he could think of no response that would not be a blatant lie that the captain would see through. "Well, yes, sir, it's difficult for my wife, with the three little ones. Normally, she takes in some washing from town, but she hasn't been able to do very much of it with the baby. I mean, the army pay is fine, don't get me wrong. It's just that it's been a little . . . ."

"Spotty?" Jean-Luc offered.

"Yes, sir, and then it takes some time to get to her in the mail."

Jean-Luc nodded. "And your employer, Captain Maxwell, he doesn't provide for your family?"

Miles looked perplexed. "Why would he? I'm not there working for him. I'm here."

Jean-Luc nodded again. His first idea had been to simply offer charity to the young family, support from his estate, but, realizing that O'Brien had been too proud to admit his situation and it had taken Beverly to bring it to his attention, he knew that the Irishman would never accept that plan. He walked around to his desk, feeling his control returning, and breathed in. "Mr. O'Brien, I have a proposal for you. On my plantation, I am in need of a laundress as the woman we had has . . . she's taken quite ill. I would like to propose that I send our laundry to your wife, along with a girl to watch your children while she works. We generate quite a great deal of wash. She should be able to earn enough to live on."

Miles could not quite comprehend what he was hearing.

Outside the tent, where Will and she were listening, Beverly thought that two girls might be better, one to help with the wash and one to help with the children. She would write to Guinan to recommend that and to suggest that the girls come every day and that Keiko be paid well.

"Sir, I-I don't know what to say," Miles finally managed.

"You don't have to say anything. You would be doing me a great favor. We're heading north and the last thing I want to worry about is who is washing the damn laundry on my land."

"I'll tell my wife, sir, I'm sure she'll be happy to do so. Thank you, sir."

Jean-Luc nodded with a thin-lipped smile. "Dismissed."

Upon hearing the word, Will and Beverly jumped away from the tent, the former snapping to attention to stand guard and the latter struggling to appear innocent and composed. Miles exited the tent and saw her.

"Mrs. Crusher, uh, thank you for, uh, speaking on my behalf." Miles lowered his voice in the hope that Lt. Riker would not hear.

"D-don't mention it."

Seeing tears on her face, Miles offered his handkerchief.

"Oh, no thank you, I'm fine."

Angered by how his commanding officer had treated the woman who had saved his son's life, but grateful that the same man was now going to feed his family, Miles tried to soften the man's blows. "Don't let him bother you, Mrs. Crusher. Look, I know he can be pretty strict . . . and he even sounds mean sometimes, but, deep down, the captain is a good man."

It was that very sentiment that had caused her tears to fall, but she had to hide it. "I suspect you may be right, Mr. O'Brien. You may be right."

She walked away before she began to cry outright, leaving Miles to ponder what she meant. He watched her recede down the hill toward Wesley's tent and spoke to Will, or to no one in particular. "Sometimes, I think I'll never understand women."

 _You'll never understand that one,_ Will thought. _Never._

"Number One!"

Will snapped out of his reverie and turned to see Captain Picard had stepped out of his tent. "Yes, sir."

"Mrs. O'Brien and her children will be leaving for home. They will need an escort to take them to the train station and they had better start soon. Please arrange for that and," he handed him an envelope, "make sure that Mrs. O'Brien gets this. It contains a letter to Guinan and her train fare. She can't very well travel alone by wagon."

"Yes, sir," Will said automatically. "Alone, sir?"

"I've decided that Mrs. Barclay and Mrs. Crusher may stay with the company if they so desire."

"Sir?" Will raised an eyebrow in disbelief at his captain's highly uncharacteristic, not to mention fast, reversal.

Jean-Luc sighed. "They convinced me—for now. Once we engage in battle we may well have cause to re-evaluate and we will do so at the time."

A broad grin lit up Will's bearded face. "Yes, sir."


	48. Chapter 48

Hello, you wonderful readers! This chapter is several short updates on several different characters, hinting at things to come. I hope you enjoy! With much gratitude, Liz

* * *

"'Scuse me, massuh?"

Edward stood in the doorway of Kyle Riker's study, awaiting permission to enter the room.

Hunched over his desk, writing, a generous swath of his bushy gray mane hanging in his face, Kyle took his time, making the man wait while he finished his paragraph.

Finally looking up, but at his handiwork, not at Edward, he called, "Yes, what is it?"

"The boy from the post office brought some more letters, massuh."

The report made him turn. "Bring them over here. Multiple letters?"

"Yessir, he said there was one arrived yesterday and three today." Edward placed the envelopes in Kyle's outstretched hand.

"And she's still sent nothing for the telegraph machine?"

"No, sir."

"Did you ask about the telegraph?"

"Yessir. But she never tried to send no telegraphs. Just letters."

"Good, good." He examined the addresses in the by now familiar feminine handwriting. "What are you still doing here?" He barked at Edward, who backed away, with a bow, and left the room.

Alone, Kyle gripped his gold letter opener and attacked Vash's correspondence. One was an irrelevant thank you note to some biddy who had written to her. Another was related to the upcoming Confederate Army Ladies Auxiliary fundraiser in Atlanta. These he discarded in his fireplace with a violet throw.

She had written two letters to Q, from the day before and today, complaining about his harassment of her. Kyle smirked as he read her dark descriptions of him—a tyrant, a bully, unreasonable, malicious. Exhilarated by her growing stress and fear, Kyle thought perhaps it was time to increase his persecution to a new level. Unlike his dear Betty, Vash was a tough woman, with an inner strength and power that sweet and kind feminine souls never possessed. He had expected her to be much harder to break, but, based on the letters she wrote to her husband, his plan was progressing marvelously. Laughing, he unlocked and opened a drawer of his desk and deposited the newest additions to his collection of her letters, hidden underneath and completely concealed by his large ledger.

Kyle laughed out loud.

* * *

"And, Lieutenant," Jean-Luc called out to a departing Will, poring over the map of Virginia on his desk, "please send Wesley in here."

"Yes, sir," Will said automatically. He paused, debated whether to say anything, then turned back to his commanding officer. "Sir?"

"Yes?" Jean-Luc did not look up.

Will stood up straighter, which made him feel the confidence he would need to give Captain Picard the friendly warning he knew the man needed. "Captain, since we've come to Virginia, as you know, our tents are quite a bit closer to the men's tents."

"Mm-hm."

"And, while this may be good for a number of reasons . . . ," in his nervousness, Will could not think of any reasons, "it could also potentially create some problems."

"Problems?" Jean-Luc was still distracted by the troop movements he was analyzing on the map.

"For example, our voices could carry, and . . . ." The first part of his sentence sped out of Will's mouth with his usual swaggering air, but the second half got stuck in his throat. "Uh, the men might hear them."

Finally noticing his first lieutenant's discomfort, Jean-Luc looked up. "Number One, are you worried that the men might hear us discussing officers' business?"

"Well, sir, actually, it's not so much when _we're_ speaking . . . ." Will painfully swallowed the lump that had coalesced in his larynx, possibly to prevent him from continuing.

Jean-Luc felt a vague sense of alarm.

"But," Will continued, "at night, it's especially quiet and, uh . . . sounds can . . . carry." He prayed that that description was enough.

It was enough. Jean-Luc's face immediately colored and sank, thinking of Beverly's and his love-making and their varied vocalizations of passion and ecstasy. The thought of his company hearing him—he could not entertain that notion. Obviously, however, Will had heard them. He was mortified.

"I'll, uh, I'll get Mr. Crusher." His message conveyed, Will slipped out and exhaled in the crisp fall morning.

Having completely forgotten his calculations on where the union army might try to cross the Potomac River, Jean-Luc instead tried to think of a way to tell Beverly that Will Riker had been listening to them make love, possibly for weeks. By this point in their ever-growing relationship, Jean-Luc had a fairly good idea of what would spark his wife's temper—having frequently done so himself—and he knew that she was modest about sexuality. How she would manage the deep embarrassment he was sure that she would feel, he could not guess. All thoughts of Yankee invasions swept well aside, he focused his strategic mind on how to avoid Beverly's temper and assuage her guilt when he spoke to her about it. Even as his thoughts moved to the discomfiting subject, he felt his arousal building as he recalled the sights and sounds of her quaking orgasms.

"Oh, dear," he sighed.

* * *

Marie Picard's small sitting room faced south and always welcomed a great deal of sunshine. Its cheeriness was only one of the many aspects that Deanna Riker liked about the space. Since it had always been used exclusively by Marie, everything about the room reflected her personality—furniture and decorations from France, a small collection of books in French and English on one shelf, flowery upholstery on the sofas and a light fragrance from her perfume. The room was not cluttered, as most of her mother's house was, nor was the scent too overpowering, as in her mother's house. A feminine, ladylike sanctuary, where two friends could relax, chat, share refreshments and sew and knit in peace.

Which was exactly what Marie and Deanna had taken to doing after the brouhaha with the Ladies Auxiliary Sewing Circle and Beverly's departure four weeks earlier. Between the two of them, they had tackled Deanna's maternity wardrobe as well as clothes for her baby, which, to Marie's polite concern, Deanna had insisted was a boy. Although small infants' clothing was essentially identical regardless of a baby's sex, Marie was secretly working on a dress for when Deanna's child—if it were a girl—was old enough to wear it. During their times together, however, Marie acknowledged Deanna's belief and, as she felt was best with expectant mothers, humored her.

"Here, my dear," Marie said, taking Deanna's arm as the women entered the cozy nook, "let me get you a footstool."

"Oh, thank you. That would be wonderful." Six months pregnant, Deanna still moved around relatively easily, but her body was beginning to feel the effects of her changing center of gravity and the additional weight she was carrying.

Helping Deanna get settled, Marie mentioned, "I got another letter from Beverly today and she said she's making clothes for the baby as well."

"Oh." Deanna was grateful, but surprised. "I thought she'd be seeing to the men, making sure they have what they need."

"Apparently, they've all gotten their Confederate Army uniforms and they're well set. Beverly repairs holes in socks or gloves, that sort of thing, but she has enough time to help us as well." Marie smiled, poured cups of tea and made up plates of light pastries.

Deanna thought of her adventurous friend. "I still can't believe Beverly's in Virginia, living in a tent."

Marie handed her the "Oh, I can. Beverly's always had a bit of an adventurous spirit, hasn't she? She traveled with her husband and she's scoured the forests for medicinal plants. She's worked with Dr. Quaice, learning the practice of medicine all these years. I feel that Beverly is made of stronger stuff than many women."

Deanna pondered that assessment. "Stronger stuff than many men, too."

The women picked up their respective projects and set to work. Their fingers nimbly created for some time in a companionable silence, until Deanna took a break to share an idea sparked by their conversation. "Marie, do you ever wonder if we should be doing more? Like Beverly?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Beverly, and, now, Kate, are midwives and Miss Ro, well, she has her work. Alynna runs her plantation. I just, sometimes, feel that I should do more with my life than attend social events and sew."

Marie smiled at the younger woman. "Deanna, dear, you don't realize it, but you _are_ doing a great deal right now. You're bringing a new life into the world. Your body is dedicated to that job right now and, when the baby is born, you will be dedicated to nursing and caring for him—or her—and that will occupy and fulfill your life completely."

Deanna noticed the wistful look in her friend's eye as Marie remembered her own son. Deanna took her hand and gave her a reassuring squeeze. "Thank you, my friend. You're right, I suppose I can't fully appreciate the changes that motherhood will bring."

"Excuse me, Madame?" Guinan stood in the doorway with a younger African woman, with dark skin and her hair piled up in a braid on her head. Although she had been free for many months, Guinan insisted on calling Marie "Madame," out of habit, she said. No one believed her motivation was anything other than respect.

"Oh, hello, Guinan," Marie called cheerily. "What can I do for you?" It was as plain as the nose on her face that the Guinan was about to ask a favor related to the woman at her side. As usual, Marie was open to her friend and employee's suggestions.

Guinan was not shy. "Aquiel here would like to become a better seamstress. She had been working in the laundry, but she'd like to focus on sewing and one day open her own shop. I was wondering if she could spend part of your sewing time with you, learning more of the craft."

Marie smiled warmly, a friendly twinkle in her eyes, and looked to Deanna, hoping that her friend was as enthusiastic about the idea as she was. In Deanna's contented face, she saw a kindred spirit.

"I think that's a wonderful idea," Deanna said.

"I could make clothes for your baby," Aquiel eagerly offered.

Deanna laughed. "This baby will have more clothes than . . . my mother!"

The two friends shared the joke, then invited Aquiel to sit next to Deanna on the sofa.

"How nice," Marie remarked, "to see the young women living here learn different trades. It's so good to be able to do different types of work." Aquiel had brought in some coarse cloth and Marie set about showing her how to make a dress pattern.

"Hmm, I was just saying I'd like to do something more," Deanna said.

"Oh?" Guinan had no obvious reason to linger in the room. She had, however, remained, casually looking out the window.

Deanna sighed. "Well, Marie reminded me that I'm going to have my hands full soon enough."

"That's true," Guinan allowed. "But, you have some time until then."

Marie looked up from the cloth she had pinned with Aquiel, on guard for Guinan's manipulative meddling, but she did not say anything.

"Yes, I do. I'm just not sure what I'd like to do. Or, how I could contribute."

"What are you good at?"

The question gave Deanna pause. Growing up coddled and, she now saw, untested, she was not really sure where her talents lay. She considered herself an average seamstress, a poor singer in church, uninterested in business, too squeamish to be a midwife and only a fair hostess, if her mother was the gold standard. She recalled that Beverly had paid her an unusual compliment before she had left.

"I supposed I'm a good listener and I'm good at helping people . . . understand things." As soon as the words left her lips, they were out in the world, where they made Marie and Aquiel look up slightly perplexed.

On the other hand, Guinan smiled and understood. "I know what you mean. And I agree—those are your strengths. So, what does those qualify you to do?"

This question was even harder to answer. As Deanna considered it, Marie shot Guinan a clear warning glance and was about to speak when Deanna ventured a guess.

"Do you think I could be a teacher?"

Marie frowned. "Deanna, dear, you're going to have a—"

"Oh, we need teachers," Aquiel chimed in. "Lots of the black parents want their children to learn to read and write. Even us adults. I know I'd like to learn."

Suddenly, Marie viewed Aquiel's presence in a whole new light. Was it possible Guinan had orchestrated the conversation, including the young woman's role, in advance? But Marie knew Guinan had not heard Deanna express her interest in doing something, because Guinan had been in the kitchen. In fact, Marie herself had answered the door.

"A teacher . . . ," Deanna said, looking out the window, lost in thought.

"Well, look at how things work out." The tone of happy surprise did not sound natural for Guinan.

"Yes," Marie agreed, her voice simultaneously full of cheer and sarcasm, "funny, isn't it?"

* * *

By late afternoon the air had cooled some, more so than the previous days, but Will was not surprised that Beverly had insisted on meeting anyway. She was determined to improve.

Will found her cleaning Wesley's gun, nearly finished, on the broad plain just below the encampment. She did not want to waste a second of the waning daylight, he knew. Smiling, he held out the ammunition she would need for her practice shooting.

Without preamble, Beverly said, "I already set up some targets." She pointed at hastily assembled cloth dolls, standing at intervals along logs and stumps, leftovers from trees the company had chopped down for firewood, on the edge of the forest. Reaching into the box in Will's hand, she loaded the weapon.

"I'd like you to stand farther back today," Will said.

"Oh?"

"You know how to use the gun. You've worked on accuracy. Now, let's get you accurate at a farther distance." He took several large steps away from where she had been standing. "This is the maximum range of the rifle. You should practice hitting targets from here."

The distance seemed so far to Beverly. But, taking Jean-Luc's warnings of danger to heart, she wanted to be sure that she could defend herself if necessary. "All right." She paced back to Will. "Let's try it."

The first shots failed to reach the targets.

"How do you have to adjust, for the greater distance?" Will asked.

Beverly thought. "I need to hold the barrel up higher?"

"Yes. Keep siting it the way you have been, but with—"

The crack of the shot interrupted him. Beverly winged the first doll's arm.

"Good," he said, although he knew she did not consider it good enough.

As they continued loading and shooting, with occasional advice, Will steeled himself to broach a difficult subject. Before today, Will had thought that no conversation could have been harder than telling his commanding officer that he and his wife were too loud when they were having sex. Jean-Luc had quickly grasped his innuendo, making the task much easier. Standing alongside Beverly, Will now appreciated that such topics were infinitely easier to raise with another man.

"You look thoughtful," Beverly said, both helping and worsening matters at the same time.

"Well, I wanted to tell you something," Will began.

Beverly lowered the rifle and stared at him. _Good heavens, he's not going to say what he said to Jean-Luc, is he? Haven't we been quieter?_ She felt her cheeks and neck flush and hoped that the early twilight was dark enough to conceal her embarrassment. She could not possibly talk about her love life with Will!

"Jean-Luc told me," she said quickly and aimed the gun at the next unsuspecting doll.

 _Crack!_

Will was confused. Did Jean-Luc know about—no, he realized, Beverly was talking about something different. "Actually, I don't think he does know about this."

 _Oh no, something else?_ Beverly's first thought was that, perhaps, after hearing them make love, Will had _seen_ something intended to be private. Her concentration surrendered to her churning stomach and she lowered the gun. Although she wished she could avoid hearing whatever Will wanted to say to her, she knew that he would not have spoken up if it were not important. "Oh?" She said meekly.

Will looked around to ensure that they were alone in the vast field and would not be overheard. He took a step closer to her, which caused Beverly some alarm, due to the very personal nature of her thoughts. She inched backward.

"I wanted to warn you," Will said. "Some of the men are talking about . . . ," he looked away briefly to find his courage, "about you and Cpl. Odan."

Beverly exhaled. Gossip she could handle. "So? Let them talk."

"Beverly, you shouldn't be so dismissive. They see you walk into the woods with Odan—"

"And walk out of the woods carrying baskets of plants, if they're paying attention. Because that's all we do, gather plants for medicines."

"You know that's not how it looks."

"That's how it _should_ look. We're not teenagers going on dates back home. We're in the middle of a war and we're responsible adults doing something to help the company."

Will had not wanted to go this far, but apparently, his old friend would not listen to reason. "Are you sure that's all Odan is looking to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

Of course, Beverly knew. Until now, she had successfully evaded this issue with Odan, Wesley, Jean-Luc and even with herself. She tried to sidestep Will. "I don't think he's interested in me in that way."

"You don't?" Will was not having Beverly's innocent act. "Then maybe you haven't noticed how he looks at you lately. I have and, believe me, it's not the look of one plant scientist to another."

"I've told him that I'm not interested. I've discouraged him."

"Yet, you keep talking with him and walking into the woods with him."

"To collect plants."

"So he thinks that he has a chance. Or he enjoys worshiping you in silence. Or, he's waiting for you to change your mind about him." Will came closer and put a hand on her arm. "Beverly, please trust me, you have to stop spending any time with him."

Beverly looked into Will's blue eyes, filled with concern. "I don't think he would hurt me," she said.

"I don't either."

"And I would _never_ be unfaithful to Jean-Luc." She shook her head and spoke with a ferocity that reinforced her statement.

"I know." Will gave her arm a squeeze. "There are some things that a man can understand about another man more easily than a woman can. You know I care about you and I want the captain and you to be happy. Please trust me on this."

Somehow, Will Riker's sincerity shone through his eyes and his manner. Since the day he had helped her in the rain, and maybe before then, Beverly had trusted him. He had a good heart. Even though she did not completely understand and she did not like what she did understand, she decided to follow his suggestion. Her life with Jean-Luc meant too much to her to jeopardize it by a few walks with a companionable fellow plant enthusiast.

"All right." She nodded and raised the rifle. "I want to be able to hit them consistently from this distance."

Will smiled. "It just takes practice." As stubborn as Beverly could be, Will reflected, she was smart and practical, which made her easier to get along with than many women, in his opinion.

 _Crack!_

* * *

Among the countless minute details of highly regulated army life that crossed his desk each day, Q found an interesting note from one of his minions that Picard's company had two women from home travelling with it. While that fact alone was just as boring as the number of soldiers afflicted with blisters from their new boots, what caught his attention was one of the names of the women: Beverly Crusher.

"Intriguing . . . ," Q said out loud to himself. "She always was a doting mother, but to travel to Virginia to be with her son? That seems like a very long and perilous trip even for the most overbearing of bored spinsters." Remembering the day that his train had departed for boot camp, and the last time he had seen Beverly Crusher—with Jean-Luc Picard—Q readily concluded that something was going on. Now, _that_ might justify a miserable journey through valleys and mountains toward the savagery of war.

Q rubbed his hands together in anticipation, hardly able to decide what he wanted to do first—ride over to Picard's camp to investigate or write to his wife to spread the gossip. He decided to write first, to tantalize her, then supply whatever details he uncovered in a later missive. If his suspicions were correct and Picard was having an affair with the eccentric widow, then that tidbit would be not only the juiciest gossip in the county, but also the most powerful leverage he could have against the captain whom he knew would one day challenge his authority.

" _Finally_ , this war is getting interesting."

* * *

Kate Pulaski prided herself on her neatness, in everything that she did. Therefore, she regularly scrubbed countertops, walls and floors in Dalen's examination room. She tidied his storage chest and bookshelves. Piles of papers simply disappeared. His whole house smelled of the lemon soap she made and used everywhere.

Dalen's records of payment presented a special challenge to her preference for order, but Kate was up to it. First of all, her handwriting was far more legible than Beverly's. Second, Kate noticed that Beverly had often accepted payment in kind—bushels of peaches or onions, cords of firewood, etc.—instead of cash. These goods were difficult to value, thus created an impermissible imprecision in the records. Still more problems were created by Beverly's permitting patients to pay in installments, which required her to add numerous notes and cross references in the ledger. Kate put an end to both practices and her simplified system of demanding cash upon service, while taking many people by surprise, resulted in organized, readable records.

It being his longstanding habit to never look at his ledger of patient payments, Dalen did not have an opportunity to appreciate Kate's handiwork within it. He did find, however, that he liked her fastidiousness around the house. Furthermore, Kate had an agreeable personality. If she was not as witty or well-read as Beverly, that was all right, Dalen told himself. He recommended books for her and he ate more mid-day meals at the hotel. Kate cooked him dinner, but never ate with him and he was getting used to reading while he consumed her serviceable, if not always delicious, spreads.

As a nurse and midwife, Kate was competent and an eager learner. If her bedside manner was not as warm or intuitive as Beverly's, that was a small price to pay for obtaining a skilled replacement so swiftly and easily. All in all, Dalen reflected, he had been fortunate to have a smooth transition from one assistant to another. Many other country doctors, he knew, would be jealous at his success.

Dalen walked into the examination room to prepare for his next patient, an older man of some means who tended to think he suffered from every conceivable ailment at one time or another. All of a sudden, he felt a sharp pain in the side of his head. How odd, he thought, as the pain intensified.

Before the hypochondriac arrived, Kate wanted to resolve a nagging footnote with Dalen. She rounded the corner and stepped into the exam room, holding the open ledger. "Doctor, I have a question about—"

She looked up and saw the doctor, lying on the floor, trying to grasp the leg of the examination table and making an undecipherable moaning sound. She immediately dropped next to him.

"Ba-Ba-Ba-Beverly . . . ."

"Beverly's not here, doctor," Kate said, lifting his head up and shoving the big ledger underneath for a pillow."

"Ga-gree-green . . . ." His eyes moved to the left, toward the long counter that lined the far wall of the room.

"Green? What does that mean? I don't understand."

"Bev—gree—green."

Kate put a hand on his chest and felt his heart beating. Dalen's eyes pleaded with her, but she did not know what to do. It was clear that he was trying to tell her something, but what? She looked up toward the counter, which contained all his medical supplies and instruments, as well as items Beverly had left behind.

"Beverly's jars!" Kate got up as quickly as she could and hurried to the different jars of herbs and medicines that Beverly stored on the exam room counter. One of the jars was green. She seized it and nearly fell next to Dalen. "I've got it."

Her shaking hands struggled and finally removed the lid of the jar. She shook the jar until the long, dark green dried leaves inside fell out. Hurriedly, she shoved a leaf into Dalen's mouth. He did not respond. "Chew it!" She commanded. When he did not comply, she started to move his jaw up and down, forcing his teeth to grind the coarse material. Since he was lying on his back, she assumed that he swallowed the green mush that fell to the back of his throat. Kate repeated the dose. As she worked his jaw, Dalen became less and less responsive, until he made no noise and his eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling.

Kate, to her credit, remained calm. _Oh, my God, he's dying,_ she thought, and resigned herself to simply be there with him at the moment of death, as she had done ages ago with her parents. Dr. Dalen Quaice had led a good life and taken care of so many people. She picked up his hand and squeezed it, keeping it between her two palms.

"I'm here, Dalen," she said. "You're not alone. You're not alone."

Saying nothing and not looking at her, Dalen seemed to concentrate on breathing. Kate listened to his shallow rasps and looked at his glassy eyes and prayed to God to let this kind man go quickly, go peacefully.

"Our Father, who art in heaven . . . ," Kate prayed.


	49. Chapter 49

In this season of giving for so many, I want to give thanks to all of you readers for your loyalty and your reviews. I really enjoy writing for you and hearing from you. Thank you to all of you other writers for sharing the immense gifts of your stories with me. Feeling connected is so important, especially in today's world. It's good to know there's a place where we can find a refuge and share something with others. Wishing you all peace & joy, Liz

* * *

Jean-Luc kept his eyes on Beverly, returning her gaze full of love, a calm, peaceful smile illuminating his face, as he reluctantly backed out of the tent to spend the whole day apart from her.

"Morning, captain."

As if caught doing something illicit, Jean-Luc's beatific expression suddenly hardened into his captain's mask.

"Ah, yes, good morning, private." The man stood a mere four yards from the first lieutenant's tent, carrying buckets of water toward the cook's area. Taken aback somewhat by encountering the captain, he was frozen to the ground.

"Yes, I was just, uh," Jean-Luc cleared his throat, then took a deep breathe, as though inhaling the fresh air for his health, and thought, "briefing Lt. Riker. On the, uh, day's schedule." An idea to bolster his weak-sounding story occurred to him. He stuck his head back into the tent, where he saw an alarmed Beverly, her eyes wide, holding the blanket up to her collarbone with her alabaster white arms. "That will be all, lieutenant," he said to her in his captain's voice, "see that my orders are carried out." He closed the flap.

Having heard the exchange outside, Beverly understood the charade her husband was playing and knew that some kind of response was required from Lt. Riker, who was supposed to be inside the tent. What would be worse, she tried to rapidly analyze, no response from Riker or a response that sounded strangely feminine? Clutching the blanket to her mouth to distort her voice, she said in as firm and low a voice as she could manage, "Yes, sir."

"Carry on, private." A modicum of his authority restored, Jean-Luc dispatched the man with a sternness that almost made the shy private completely forget what had struck him as odd about the captain's manner so early in the morning outside Lt. Riker's tent.

Although Beverly and he had escaped detection, Jean-Luc knew they needed to remain vigilant. He could have gone back into the tent and kissed those bare arms or touched that tousled hair, but he needed to get his mind off his incredible wife and back into his command. "I'm going for a walk," he called into the tent without looking.

Once away from the camp and on the path that led into vast woods, Jean-Luc took several more deep breaths of cool autumn air. The Virginia countryside was beautiful, with green rolling hills surrounding them. Fall's colors, resplendent in the sunshine, reflected the sunrise. As he climbed uphill, his muscles exhilarated in the exertion.

As usual on these strolls, Jean-Luc's restless mind wandered while his body did the same. On some mornings, military movements and plotting distracted him, but today, especially after their close call, his thoughts centered on Beverly. Despite the odd circumstances of their hidden relationship amid an army encampment, they had grown comfortable in their routine. Separated all day, each focused on duties. Beverly had kept busy sewing, dispensing first aid and writing letters. She became friendlier with Nella Barclay; the two women often chatted. From time to time, having warned him in advance, she even went out into the woods to gather medicinal leaves and roots with Cpl. Odan. Jean-Luc had been greatly opposed and concerned about her safety alone with the man, rather than her fidelity, but somehow Beverly's assurances had overridden his worries.

Each night, he ate dinner with Will, while she ate with Wesley. They conversed with their dinner companions until lights out and she retired to Will's tent. Several minutes later, he would sneak over to the tent. They would talk quietly about their days, their thoughts, their dreams. They plumbed each other's sense of humor—Jean-Luc readily admitting that hers was more barbed—and discovered that they were both perhaps a little more stubborn than they would like to admit. From their arguments, they learned to accept that they would challenge each other at times, but that they would always respect one another's different view. Not only did he feel closer to, and understood and loved by, Beverly than any other person he had known, he had never known that two people could even _be_ that intimate.

And their lovemaking was exquisite. Her beauty thrilled him every time he beheld her and just the touch of her skin aroused him to the core. Unlike the more casual, only slightly satisfying sexual encounters that he had sought with women he did not know over the last uncounted decades, intimacy with Beverly moved him. Each summit to ecstasy was a near holy experience that left Jean-Luc feeling closer to God, the universe—to life itself. These days with her had been the best of his life. He was changing, an unfamiliar experience for him, but he was—

"Why, good morning, captain! Fancy bumping into you out here so early."

Violently shoved out of his daydreams, Jean-Luc hastily hardened his facial features for a second time that morning and turned in the direction of the overly cheerful voice. So lost had he been in his reverie, he had not heard the horse approach. "Good morning, major. Just taking my morning constitutional."

"What a coincidence!" Q exclaimed, dismounting. "I was about to do the same."

Jean-Luc stared incredulously. Clearly, the major, on horseback, had not been about to embark on a walk for exercise. The mercurial man's sudden change of plans could only mean that he wanted to speak with Jean-Luc. Since the two men had regular briefings, Q's unexpected appearance and feigned casualness suggested a desire to speak to his captain that was outside standard military business. Jean-Luc's guard flew up.

Q stepped into stride with Jean-Luc, with a friendly slap on the back. "Perfect morning for a walk, wouldn't you say, _mon capitaine?"_

Jean-Luc despised the nickname as much as he resented the interruption of his solitude. "Yes, perfect," he said, his testiness leaking through his façade.

Q noted, but decided not to remark upon, Jean-Luc's mood. He walked a few yards in silence. "I trust you've read the report of the Battle of Ball's Bluff?"

The report had been delivered late the night before, perhaps only six hours earlier. Jean-Luc had, in fact, read it immediately upon receipt, by candlelight, with Beverly reading over his shoulder. Q's courier had ridden up to his tent, where Will had received the report, claiming that the captain was asleep as Jean-Luc had hurriedly dressed in Will's tent. Was that the reason for Q's surprise appearance? To make sure that he had gotten the report of the battle, which had taken place approximately fifty miles from their camp two days earlier?

"Yes."

"Any thoughts?" Q challenged.

Jean-Luc nodded, quickly assembling his impressions of the misguided Union attempt. "Apparently, there were a number of poor decisions by the Union field commanders."

"Such as?"

"Not knowing the full details or the complete picture, I can't—"

"Yes, yes, you're not writing a book, Picard. Just tell me what you think of the battle, based on our current information."

Jean-Luc noted Q's impatience. "Very well, with that qualifier: first of all, the choice of a bluff for mounting an attack is questionable because of the difficult terrain to ascend. From reports, it appears that the Union lacked sufficient boats to get their reinforcements across the Potomac and, given these unfavorable circumstances, arguably, they should have chosen to withdraw, rather than to reinforce their men in a battle they could never win." Being called upon to answer reminded Jean-Luc of his days in the naval academy, where the cadets had to stand in class and provide analyses of famous and theoretical battles. He had always done well in military history and strategy.

Q assessed Jean-Luc's profile as the older man calmly and accurately dissected the battle report. He congratulated himself on having Jean-Luc in his regiment, although he had had nothing to do with the assignment or with the latter's volunteering. "What do you think this battle means for us?"

"For our regiment?" Jean-Luc said. "Very little. Unless we believe that the entire Union army is composed of incompetent leadership."

"Bull Run, now Ball's Bluff," Q countered. "I haven't seen any competent leadership. Many—if not all—of the great generals are from the south and now serving in our army. I can't wait to meet the blithering idiots on the battlefield."

In no hurry to fight himself, nevertheless, Jean-Luc had to agree with their odds. "If we face the same decision-makers. There's no guarantee that we will. What do you know of this General McClellan?"

Q scoffed. "Some vague success in the Mexican-American war and minor skirmishes won in western Virginia."

Jean-Luc looked at Q. "If he's won skirmishes, then he poses a threat."

"They were small engagements in the middle of nowhere. No strategic significance."

Q's overconfidence—exactly the attitude that got men killed—worried Jean-Luc. He had long been concerned that Q's arrogance would cause him to make dangerous decisions on the battlefield. Evidently, underestimation of the enemy would infect Q's planning even before their actual meetings with the enemy. Would Q listen to his suggestions about strategy, Jean-Luc wondered. Would the two men see eye to eye on every course of action when they were in the midst of battle?

Turning his head away, as if he were admiring the foliage, Q smiled smugly. His feint had worked perfectly, irritating Jean-Luc and preoccupying him with the strengths and weaknesses of the Union army. Now, it was time to go in for the kill.

"I heard an interesting rumor the other day," Q began, "about Beverly Crusher—" Q looked over in time to see Jean-Luc's head snap around to face him—"and you."

"Me?"

Although he knew it was important to maintain a stone façade, Jean-Luc feared his face had already given away too much emotion, so shocked was he to hear her name on Q's lips.

Q raised an eyebrow suggestively. "She _is_ travelling with your company, isn't she?"

His heart pounded like a sledgehammer on a railroad tie. Jean-Luc almost expected Q to hear it. He hoped the major did not make anything of the slight pause as he devised an appropriate answer.

Trying to adopt a casual air, Jean-Luc said, "Well, Mrs. Crusher is travelling with her son. You may remember how upset she was when he was sent off without her knowledge. We have another woman with the company. I don't know if you had heard that Reg Barclay married Nella Darren? Mrs. Barclay is also with us."

Q sensed his adversary was scrambling. Ignoring the attempt at diversionary gossip, he pressed, "You know, Jean-Luc, now that you mention it, I do remember Mrs. Crusher being quite angry at the train station. She arrived just after the train left, I believe."

"Yes," Jean-Luc quickly concurred, hoping that his story was convincing.

"But, I've never understood one thing about that day." Q turned to Jean-Luc as if the thought had just occurred to him. "Maybe you can explain it. I've always wondered what Beverly Crusher was doing there with _you."_

 _Merde._ Jean-Luc recovered quickly. "Mrs. Crusher is a friend of my sister-in-law. I accompanied her at Marie's behest."

 _Touché, mon capitaine,_ Q thought, _but I am not done yet._ "Are you still be-friending her on Marie's behalf? According to what I've heard, that would be quite a favor for a relative."

Jean-Luc saw an opening and decided it was pointless to continue to dance around it. "What exactly have you heard, Q?" His use of the major's nickname revealed his growing anger at Q's talking about Beverly and linking her with him.

"Tch, tch, Jean-Luc," Q chided. "No need to get touchy. Someone just saw the two of you together in an . . . intimate moment."

 _Impossible!_ Jean-Luc thought. They had been so careful. Even in these last few weeks, as they had grown more accustomed to being together, at night, they had been scrupulous about avoiding each other all day in public. Was Q bluffing? Or, had someone heard them, as Will had warned? Jean-Luc felt sweat collect under the collar of his gray jacket. He chanced an aggressive strategy of complete denial.

"That's impossible." He summoned his most indignant voice and stiffened his posture. He tapped into the anguish he had felt during the months they had spent apart. "We could not have been observed in any kind of 'intimate' moment because we have not shared any such intimacy. Your source is mistaken."

Q was thoroughly enjoying the arrogant man's obvious discomfort. "My source is highly reliable," he asserted.

"Well, I am sorry to inform you that your source is wrong. It never happened."

Q smirked. "Jean-Luc, just between the two of us—I can't believe Beverly Crusher came all the way up here out of adoration of her son. Especially with her friend Will Riker keeping an eye on him. But, if she's travelling with the army in order to _get_ some—" He nudged Jean-Luc knowingly.

"No!" Jean-Luc yelled and moved away from Q's joking elbow. His instinctual reaction was so strong and immediate that he would never be able to feign complete disinterest. _Damn that infernal man!_

Q pretended to be surprised at the outcome he had tried to create. "My, my, Jean-Luc, such intensity of feeling for the lovely, and perhaps lonely, redhead."

"Q—" Jean-Luc stopped himself from speaking, but his rage would not subside. To his chagrin, he could not stop his hands, which had unconsciously balled up into fists, from shaking as he frantically searched for a way out of the trap into which Q had drawn him with his innuendo.

Wonderment lit Q's face as he realized he had found Jean-Luc's Achilles heel. The always unperturbable Picard, quick-thinking on his feet, had always parried Q's thrusts. The subject of Beverly Crusher, however, left him impotently fumbling for words, like an infatuated adolescent. What fun! Picard's loss of control was even more delightful than his awkward squirming.

"Look, Q," Jean-Luc began, not fully in control of his emotions, but trusting himself to rein them in as he responded, "it's no secret that Beverly and I had . . . a relationship of sorts, prior to my meeting and marrying Miss Ro. I confess that I may have some . . . residual feelings for Bev-Mrs. Crusher and, as a result, I am quite offended at your suggestion that she and I have acted improperly toward one another. I am a happily married man and would never consider breaking my vow." That part of his speech, at least, was true.

He continued. "I don't know who your 'source' is, and you have apparently chosen not to share his identity with me, but he is mistaken. There was no such 'intimate moment' for him to observe. In fact—" Jean-Luc abruptly stopped himself with a sort of choke, before he said something that, while distracting from his secret marriage, would reflect poorly on Beverly as a single woman.

It was too late. "In fact, what?" Q asked, his curiosity aroused. "Is Mrs. Crusher attracted to another man? Maybe someone in your company?" This was too good—Picard was in love with Beverly and she has fallen in love with someone else? Wait until he told Vash, Q simmered.

"No! I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to!" Q began a predatory circling of his prey. "Poor Jean-Luc! Married to one woman, but in love with another. No wonder you were eager to join the army and get away. But, it seems the fates have followed you by bringing Beverly here and into the arms of another man."

Jean-Luc flinched involuntarily at the image.

Q stopped in his favorite spot, just behind but to the side of Jean-Luc, where he could lean in and speak quietly and directly into the captain's ear. "Are you hoping to be killed in battle, to be put out of your misery?"

Trying to ignore his commanding officer's close proximity, Jean-Luc remained at attention. "No. I have a duty to perform and I shall perform it."

Q spoke in dramatically fake admiration. "Spoken like the martyr that you are!"

Unaware of the interpersonal conflict unfolding beneath them, a huge flock of black birds in the tree tops, preparing for their winter's trip south, fluttered noisily into the sky. Both men looked up. Jean-Luc tried to change the subject.

"Major, can we please discuss something else? For example, when are we expected to receive intelligence on the other Union commanders in the area? Will we have any way of knowing whom we are most likely to face?"

The boring Jean-Luc was surfacing. His mission accomplished, Q had no desire to linger in the man's company. "Oh, I'm sure we'll get to that," he called over his shoulder dismissively as he began the walk back to his horse alone and at a quick pace. "Finish up your self-indulgent walk and get to work, captain! In the middle of your lovelorn fantasies, you may have noticed there's a war going on."

Vexed, Jean-Luc stared after Q until the major sauntered out of sight in the woods. He allowed himself a few brief minutes to stew, then began his unpleasant, inwardly tumultuous descent back to the camp.

Q's conversation had felt distinctly like an assault. Jean-Luc felt personally attacked and was disappointed in his poor attempt to repel the enemy. At best, he considered, all he had accomplished was a delay of the inevitable. Now that Q had put him on notice that he would be watching, how could he continue to sleep with Beverly every night? As he traversed the wooded terrain, he imagined the argument he would have with her and cursed himself for allowing her to stay with the company.

In addition to her persuasiveness and Miles O'Brien's words, Jean-Luc had reversed his order in large part because, deep down, he wanted her with him. Although his instincts had warned him to be cautious and avoid unnecessary risks of discovery, he needed Beverly. Not just physically, but emotionally. He had never needed anyone like that before and that, he now realized, was his mistake.

It was his unrestrained surrender to his carnal, and other, desires that had placed their secret, and possibly her life, in danger. He cursed his weakness. If he had only been stronger and stuck to his original decision, Beverly would be home and safe from the unhinged menace that was Q.

Without noticing where he was, Jean-Luc had hurried down into the outskirts of the large encampment, past the first few tents and an older gentleman ostensibly standing guard as he rolled tobacco. A young man—younger than Wesley, Jean-Luc guessed—in the uniform of a local militia, approached him. "Excuse me, sir?"

"Yes, what is it?" He snapped.

The young man nearly fell over backwards. "Are-are you Captain Picard?"

"I am."

"I have a letter here." He fumbled in his knapsack. "Someone in the other company told me this was somebody's wife or something in your company." He held out an envelope.

" _To: Mrs. Beverly Crusher,"_ it read, in unfamiliar handwriting, above the address.

"Yes," Jean-Luc answered. "This woman is, uh, traveling with my company. Thank you."

Dismissing the young man, he looked about the camp, a small village composed of multiple company's housing, cooking, medical and supply operations. The bustle of the day had begun as men emerged from their tents, dressed, talked and padded over to the food line.

With a quick knock and a whisper, as well as a panoramic scan to ensure no one would see him, Jean-Luc snuck back into Will's tent, where Beverly had already braided her hair and dressed in a rather drab olive green dress. He spared a second to promise himself to provide her with a more attractive wardrobe after the war. She looked up, surprised to see him.

"A letter came for you," he answered her unspoken question. "I don't know the hand."

Beverly took the envelope, but her face did not register any recognition of the handwriting either. "That's odd," she remarked as she opened it and read the letter on plain white stationery. Her complexion paled and she sat down on the bed as she read the painful message.

 _Dear Beverly,_

 _I have no idea where, or how, this letter will find you. I am forced to trust in the mail delivery system of the Confederate Army, but I simply had to write to you with some very dire news._

 _Dr. Quaice has suffered a stroke. He is alive, for now, but completely immobile and non-communicative. I'm afraid there isn't anything that can be done for him and I don't know how much longer he can last._

 _Knowing how close he and you have been over the years, I thought you should know and be given the chance to see him one more time before he passes._

 _If possible, I recommend you leave wherever you are upon receipt of this letter and return home at once._

 _Most sincerely,_

 _Katherine Pulaski_

As she read, Beverly had sat down on the cot, her light complexion becoming ashen. Jean-Luc looked on, alarmed and helpless for the few seconds before she handed him the ominous letter. He held his breath as he perused it and, knowing how much her mentor meant to her, he knelt at her feet and took her hands in his, squeezing them to share his strength.

"Jean-Luc," Beverly breathed his name. When she looked up at him, he saw tears in her eyes. "I-I have to go. I'm so sorry, I . . . ." She tried to hold back her sobs.

"Ssh," Jean-Luc calmed. "I understand."

"Dalen was—is—a mentor to me. No, more like a father. I have to see him." That Dalen had been a father figure to her was not a new realization, but saying it aloud, when he was about to die, as her real father had, opened a void in Beverly that she had long thought had been filled and sealed.

Jean-Luc sat next to her and embraced her in his strong, consoling arms. She burrowed into his neck, breathing in the clean scent of his aftershave, trying to escape the awful news.

"The captain and I will be down for breakfast in a moment." Will's booming voice served as a warning to them.

But neither of them could let go.

"I wish I could stay with you," Beverly whispered.

"I wish I could go with you," Jean-Luc answered.

Beverly lifted her head, placed a hand on her husband's cheek and looked into his sympathetic eyes. A worry plagued her. "Do you . . . do you think a woman's place is with her husband?"

Closing his eyes, Jean-Luc turned into her hand and kissed her palm. He looked at her and saw everything in the expressive blue pools staring urgently back at him, her courage, her strength, her intelligence, her love for him.

He slid his hands up her back and grasped her shoulders. "I think that you and I are unlike any husband and wife I have ever known. Our love has withstood a long period of denial, months of separation and a secret life consisting of whispers and coupling in the dark.

"You have saved my life and saved my business. You've taken care of me and challenged me. You've lived in a Godforsaken tent to be with me." He paused to smile admiringly at her. "Beverly, I know you are an exceptionally independent woman. And I know how much Dalen means to you. Go to him and know that you will go with my blessing, as well as funds for a train ticket and travel expenses."

Beverly gazed in awe at both the warm smile that only she saw and his incredible words of acceptance. How had she ever had the good fortune to find a man who would let her be herself while possessing her body and soul? "I love you," she choked, then kissed him before he could even respond, claiming his mouth with a passion that held her love and admiration, her gratitude and sorrow.

Jean-Luc felt his body stirring as he kissed Beverly. With the thought of making love to her one more time before she left, he unbuckled his coat and pressed her to him. She climbed on to his lap and he felt her breasts against his chest. His manhood awakened. Her tongue caressed his, her hands smoothed his cheeks and teased his earlobes, her—

A knock. "Excuse me, Mrs. Crusher," Will called, "but I need to retrieve some items from my tent before heading down for breakfast."

Breakfast. It was late, they were reminded. Jean-Luc was expected to be with his troops. On a typical day, they would be parting to go about their individual duties. Today, however, Beverly would be packing her things and leaving. Will's interruption having broken their kiss, they pulled apart, but Beverly remained on Jean-Luc's lap, her arms resting on his shoulders as she touched his neck, his hair, the sides of his head and his cheeks. Jean-Luc breathed heavily, enjoying the softness of her caresses, even though he knew that their time together was essentially up.

"Beverly," he said in a low voice, "you have to say something to Will."

She nodded. "Yes, Lt. Riker, I'll be out in just a moment. I'm sorry for the delay, but it's . . . unavoidable."

Jean-Luc gave her a questioning look, but she just smiled and leaned in for one more kiss.

* * *

At the far end of the dinner table, Kyle washed his steak down with a splash of fine Italian wine and stared down at his hostess. "What kind of proposition?" He asked slyly.

At the other end of the table, Alynna smiled. "One that will benefit both of us, I believe." Acutely aware of his eyes upon her, she cut her meat—slowly—and looked up at him as she lifted a juicy piece to her mouth, wrapped her lips around it and sucked it off the fork.

The seductive motions aroused Kyle. Even as he felt his body react to the sight of the petite blonde woman, in an expensive, low-cut red dress, he knew that he had to be careful. For Alynna to go to such lengths to seduce him, he reasoned, she must want something significant from him. He decided to be direct. "What do you want from me?"

Alynna had no intention of giving up control of the situation. Noticing her dinner guest begin to fidget as he ogled her, she teased, "Actually, I'm in a position to do _you_ a favor. It's a bit of a mystery to me _why_ you need this favor, but, nevertheless, I'm willing to help you achieve your ends."

"Oh? And what ends would those be?"

Alynna signaled to her butler. "More wine for the senator, please." She wanted to refill his glass at the halfway mark, so that he could not keep track of how much he was drinking. Alynna was fairly certain she could bend him to her will without making him grossly intoxicated, but, as an insurance policy, his drinking could only help, she reasoned.

"You haven't answered my question."

"I don't know the answer to your question."

Kyle marveled at how Alynna controlled their parlay even though, by her own admission, she lacked key information. He had always known she was clever, but perhaps he had underestimated her. "But, you still think you can help me?"

"I know I can." Alynna spoke confidently and calmly, then broke eye contact to return to the slow and meticulous task of cutting her meat.

Kyle watched her intently, unable to look away. He stared at her delicate hands, perfectly manicured fingers and nails, slicing back and forth into the tender red meat. Clinking against the china dinner plate as she cut, gold bracelets dangled on her slim wrists, completely exposed beneath the open trumpet shapes of her cuffs. A matching gold necklace with a shining pendant lay across her bosom. Golden hair arranged in a soft curl quite unlike her usual upsweep. As he waited for her to lift her head and look at him with her doe eyes, he sweated and salivated . . . and hardened.

Alynna's fork jabbed a square of pinkish steak and lifted it up to her mouth. She looked up and gazed directly at a motionless Kyle as her lips opened deliberately in a large circle, then closed around the fleshy morsel. She saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Right where I want him, she thought.

Watching her chew, Kyle knew he had to do something to break out of her spell. "You still haven't told me your proposal," he reminded her with the smile that had worked on countless women before her.

It did not seem to work on Alynna. She sipped some wine, set her glass down, paused, then looked up at him. "I'll be direct," she said, ironically. "I know that you've been harassing Vash, accusing her of harboring a slave smuggling ring."

Ah, Kyle thought. She wants to call off the dogs to save her friend. _I've got her._

"I can help you frame her."

Possibly the last thing that he had expected her to say. "Go on," he urged, definitely interested.

"I have an idea on how to plant evidence of slave escapes and some materials to do it with. If your deputies found those on her property, it would be pretty damning." Alynna ate another piece of steak.

Kyle sucked in his breath at the sight of her and at what she was suggesting. He knew he must regain control. "And why would you do such a thing? I thought Vash was your friend."

"I have many friends, Kyle. I'd like to be able to count you among them."

As entranced as he was, Kyle was wary. He smiled again. "Of course, I consider _you_ a friend, Alynna, and I would be honored if you felt the same about me." He could not let her off too easy, however. "I'm not admitting, of course, that I am, as you said, harassing Vash. I'm merely conducting an investigation."

"Of course."

"But, I'm afraid I still don't see why you would help me take actions that would hurt your friend."

Another maddening pause, as Alynna savored her wine. "I don't see why you're doing what you're doing either, but I'm not letting that stop me from helping you."

"How do I know I can trust you?" He asked.

"How do I know I can trust _you?"_ She asked.

Kyle chuckled. "The age-old deal with the devil, isn't it? Neither of us wants to be exposed, so we will keep each other's secrets."

"Something like that." Alynna sat back in her chair, cool and in control.

 _God, she's attractive,_ Kyle thought, seduced, perhaps unknowingly, by her power as much as her beauty. He raised his glass. "A drink, then, to our . . . limited partnership."

Without speaking, Alynna joined him in the toast.

When they had set their glasses down, Kyle stared at her unrelentingly as his insistent groin directed his behavior. "Perhaps our _limited_ partnership will lead to a more expansive one, down the road."

"Perhaps," Alynna answered. _Yes, right where I want him._ "Down the road."

* * *

The commotion made Deanna Riker look up from the lesson she was excitedly preparing for her new students, the third this week, since both students and teacher were excited to meet together in the small classroom created on the third floor of the Picard mansion. She quickly hid the lesson plan in the drawer of her small desk, composed herself on the sofa and picked up the novel she was reading, which she had borrowed from Captain Picard's library. She strained to hear the orders her mother was issuing to Homn in the hall, but she did not have to exert herself too much, as Lwaxanna then swept into the parlor where she sat.

"Oh, good, you're here, Deanna, darling," Lwaxanna bubbled. "I'm throwing a dinner party and I want you to come."

"Mother—"

"I do hope we can find something nice for you to wear," Lwaxanna said, her enthusiasm dimming as she appraised her daughter's comfortable, but unadorned dress.

"Mother—"

"Oh, good heavens, Deanna, what time is it? You need to take a nap, right this minute." Lwaxanna fluttered around the room as various servants whom Homn had assembled found places to stand and await their instructions. "I don't want you to be too tired at the dinner."

"Mother—the dinner is tonight?"

"Yes, yes. Go on, scoot upstairs and get some sleep. I'll set someone to working on taking out one of your dresses for you." She bent down and took Deanna by the arm, but when she tried to lift her daughter, Deanna did not budge and instead, Lwaxanna lost her balance and tumbled on to the couch—and Deanna—in a most undignified way, which rendered her, temporarily, speechless.

"Are you all right, Mother?" Deanna stifled a giggle.

The tall woman righted herself, straightened her clothing and stood. "I'm fine, but for heaven's sake, please get up and get yourself upstairs to rest."

Leaning on the arm of the sofa and her mother's outstretched arm, Deanna carefully lifted herself up. "First of all, I don't think 'taking out' a dress is going to work, Mother." Deanna said once she landed on her feet. "Second, I think perhaps you need to calm down a little. You've thrown many dinner parties before and we all know what to do to make them successful. Why are you so nervous?"

Ignoring her daughter, Lwaxanna saw her cook and Homn awaiting further instructions at the entrance to the dining room. "I'd like to serve duck for dinner, with the usual side dishes. Have a wine ready, but don't open it," she ordered. "Please air out the dining room for the rest of the afternoon. Keep the doors open and for heaven's sake dust everything, thoroughly."

The sudden dinner party was unusual, even for her mother, whose plans, Deanna knew, were often swayed by the slightest whims.

As Lwaxanna began to march through the rooms, giving specific orders in each, Deanna caught up to her. "Mother, why the rush to have this party tonight? Who are you inviting?"

"This floor is absolutely appalling! It needs to be washed and dried before this evening and it needs to shine!"

Lwaxanna turned to her daughter and Deanna recognized the coquettish smile on her face.

"Oh, no, not again."

"I just met the most wonderful man. He's absolutely delightful."

"Who?"

"He's the new doctor, replacing poor Dr. Quaice. His name is Dr. David Timicin and he's both handsome and charming. I know you're going to adore him, little one." Lwaxanna punctuated her last opinion with a soft tuck under Deanna's chin with her be-jeweled hand. Despite her giddy voice, Lwaxanna's dark eyes contained a sadness, a fear even.

"Mother," Deanna grabbed her arm to grab her full attention. "What's wrong?"

"There's so much to do!"

"Mother!" With her tone, Deanna warned Lwaxanna that she wanted the truth.

Lwaxanna heaved a dramatic sigh. "Oh, little one, I'm not getting any younger. It's getting more and more difficult to find a good man. And when I do find a prospect, he turns out to be like that Captain Picard and marries a young woman!"

As best she could, Deanna hugged her mother. "Don't worry, Mother. You'll turn on the charm, I'll talk about how wonderful you are and he'll have a delicious dinner. Something will either happen or it won't."

Lwaxanna rarely took the time to appreciate her daughter's calming presence and good counsel. Looking proudly at her now, a married woman about to become a mother herself, and still finding a way to comfort her mature mother, Lwaxanna touched Deanna's cheek. "Thank you, little one. You're such a kind-hearted, beautiful woman."

"Now," she returned her attention to the house staff, "make sure the good linen is aired out and pressed. The last thing I want to see tonight is wrinkles!"

Deanna sighed despairingly at the thought of yet another of her mother's pursuits beginning. Maybe a nap would be a good idea, she reflected. She would need all the fortitude she could muster to get through the evening.


	50. Chapter 50

Beverly talked to Dalen as she cared for him. After moving him to the Picard house, she took it upon herself to become his primary caregiver, although one of the teenagers was willing to help when she wasn't otherwise occupied with chores and Marie often sat with him. Beverly saw to it that he was established in a lovely guest bedroom that faced south, thus got a lot of sunlight. Stealing bed pillows from other rooms, she was able to prop him up during the day, as if he were conscious and participating in conversations or sitting up to read. His bedding was once a bright blue—no doubt, quite expensive—faded to a calmer shade. The generous mattress was comfortable and the décor of the room included oil paintings and knickknacks that Robert and Marie had accumulated over the years. If Dalen could see any of his surroundings, Beverly hoped that he would find them pleasing.

Her main responsibilities were feeding him strained meat and runny oatmeal through a tube in his mouth—a laborious process since so little food could fit through it at one time—maintaining his catheter, shaving and cutting his hair and moving and turning him in the bed regularly, to avoid bed sores. When the work of caring for him was complete, she often read to him or sat in his bedroom reviewing invoices or bank statements, writing in the plantation journal and preparing for the following year. Each morning, Beverly swept into Dalen's bedroom with a tray of specially prepared food, juice and water. The first thing she did was open the curtains, and, weather permitting, the windows, as she believed that sunlight and fresh air were good for invalids.

On a cool, early November morning, Beverly had allowed in the slight breeze, wrapping Dalen in an extra blanket after his morning toilette. Assessing him to be warm enough, she fed him, narrating the tasks that she had outlined for herself for the day. After his meal, she set about her day's work, which consisted of lifting his arms and legs multiple times for circulation as well as to prevent sores. This day, as she moved his limbs over and over, she had a confession to make about Dalen's replacement as the local physician.

"I'm sorry, Dalen, that I'm not more impressed with Dr. Timicin. I know he's a friend of yours and, obviously, you think him qualified. He may be a good physician, but his bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired, I'm afraid. He's not especially forward-thinking when it comes to women in the medical profession, either. He doesn't really value my input and he doesn't think that women should do anything other than deliver babies, which Kate is quite happy to do for him. Don't worry, I'll be delivering Deanna Riker's baby. She insists."

Beverly switched from his arms to his legs, which required her to turn so that she faced the window. She looked dreamily beyond the confines of the room as she moved his leg straight up, then down, then bent it at the knee, then brought it down. Knowing the routine by heart, her bored mind wandered to a dark thought that had haunted her since she had learned of his stroke, gaining momentum since she had been serving as her mentor's caretaker. "Dalen, maybe all of this . . . all of this with Jean-Luc was a big mistake. Wesley being so involved in the Underground Railroad, mostly to impress Jean-Luc, I think. Me, marrying him even though he's so wrapped up in his cause and supposedly married to Miss Ro."

She took his hand. "Then I left you to go follow Jean-Luc across the south, pretending not to like him but secretly being with him at night." She shook her head. "It was difficult and it was wonderful at the same time. Don't misunderstand—Jean-Luc is a good man and he's a very devoted husband. We spent our nights together, but during the day we couldn't talk to each other or eat dinner together or even look at each other." Tears moistened her face like raindrops of guilt as she found herself whispering another confession, one that had been weighing her heart down. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here for you, Dalen." She lifted their hands to rest her cheek on the tough skin on the back of his. "Maybe if I had been here, I could have done something more, something sooner. I'll never forgive myself. Never."

If Dalen could have spoken, he would have told her to stop speaking such damn foolishness. He would have told her that her happiness was the most important thing in the world to him and Jean-Luc had brought her more happiness than anyone had in over a decade. Even though, since she had returned to his side, her face had been creased by worry, Dalen could see a light in her eyes and lightness in her step that had not been there before her time with Jean-Luc. He would never want her to question her marriage, even if it were a secret, hidden behind a criminal conspiracy. The more he had listened to his neighbors and so-called friends talk about slavery and the black people who lived among them, the more Dalen was convinced that the war was necessary and the Underground Railroad was of vital importance.

Moreover, if Dalen could have spoken, he would have told her that there had not been a damn thing she could have done to prevent his stroke. That the only thing that had saved his life was the foul-tasting plant she had stored in the green jar. And that he was selfishly glad to have her by his side again, even if it was temporary.

Beverly sighed loudly and squeezed his hand tightly. "I'm so, so sorry my friend."

She read to him all morning, fed him lunch, ate herself, then, more tired than she should have been, she moved a bright yellow ottoman over and took a nap in her amply padded, patterned chair next to his bed while Dalen dozed in the afternoon sun.

Deanna walked into the room calling hello before she saw that her friend was asleep. Beverly stirred at the sound and opened her eyes. Despite her uncharacteristic nap, she still felt fatigued. Seeing Deanna, however, she sprang to wakefulness.

"I'm sorry," Deanna apologized, from the doorway. "You can go back to sleep and I'll just—"

"No, of course not." Beverly had stood and offered her chair to her seven-months pregnant friend. "Please, Deanna, you sit here. It's the comfiest chair in the room."

She checked on Dalen and saw that he was awake. "I have to take care of Dalen, but I can chat while I'm working."

"Oh, good. We haven't had a nice long chat since you've been back."

Beverly poured some water into a bowl for Dalen and some into a glass for Deanna. Moving around to the other side of Dalen's bed, she inserted the rubber tube into his mouth and lifted the bowl so that the water flowed down the tube and into his mouth, a few ounces at a time.

Seeing her friend preoccupied, Deanna decided to hold up the conversation. "Well, as I told you the other day, I've been teaching the black children on the plantation how to read. I'm by no means an expert teacher, but the children are very interested in learning. We take it day by day.

"I started with the alphabet and the letter sounds. Some of the older children are reading books now."

Beverly smiled, proud of Deanna's achievements, as she monitored Dalen's intake. "That's wonderful to hear. I'm glad you're putting your talents to use."

"I had wanted to do more than just sew. I would read your letters about everything you were doing with the army and I thought about all the women doing things around here. I just wanted to do something . . . important, I guess."

"What you're doing is very important. Maybe the most important thing any of us has done." Beverly wiped Dalen's chin with a napkin and suddenly felt very dejected.

Deanna sensed the change in her friend's mood. "Beverly, what's wrong?"

Her task finished, Beverly looked down as she lifted a straight-backed chair from the far wall of the room and set it down by the bed for herself. Sighing, she slumped into the chair looking up only to check on Dalen, whose open eyes and blank face were expressionless, non-moving, as usual.

"Do you miss Jean-Luc?" Deanna guessed.

Beverly smiled sadly. "I don't have any right to complain to you. You haven't seen Will since the day you married him. I had four glorious weeks."

Deanna laughed. "Glorious weeks living in the mud in an army tent?"

Beverly brightened. "We didn't really notice our surroundings much when we were alone together. It felt like just the two of us, in our own little world." She stopped reminiscing and looked at her friend. "I'm sorry. I know how much you miss Will. And, he misses you."

Instinctively, Deanna began rubbing her round belly. "I almost think it's worse for you, having the experience of spending time together, then losing it. Will and I write to each other two or three times a week and that helps us feel close." She laughed. "Sometimes, I felt as though I knew as much about what was going on in the camp as you must. For example, I know that Nella Barclay increased the amount of salt in the food and everyone was happy about that." She looked up to see Beverly staring plaintively out the window, holding Dalen's hand.

"Beverly, what is it?"

The admission was painful for Beverly. Just recollecting her precious time with Jean-Luc, their sexual antics that may have been contrary to God's will, wondering what they might have been doing together when Dalen was stricken. She looked up into Deanna's kind face, her hands resting on her pregnant abdomen, and felt waves of compassion and understanding.

"I feel . . . I feel terrible because I wasn't there for Dalen when it happened."

"Beverly—"

"I know, a stroke is a very serious medical event and there may have been nothing that I could have done to save him, but, still, I just wish I had been there."

Deanna felt bad for Beverly and sought to assuage her guilt. "In a way, you did help him."

"What do you mean?"

"Kate told me that she gave Dalen some plant leaves that you had in a jar on the counter in his examination room. She said he seemed to ask for them, but she wasn't sure—"

Beverly gasped and stood up. "The dark green leaves, the miracle plant!"

"What?"

"I should have thought of that! Nana always said it was a miraculous plant that could cure the brain, but I never used it. I forgot all about it. I have to go get that jar, and go out and find more leaves!" Beverly walked around the bed, grabbed her shawl from the dresser where she had lain it that morning and whirled around to her friend. "Deanna, can you stay with Dalen while I run out? Just talk to him or read or something for a while. I want to get the leaves and have them crushed and added to his meals. I'll have to talk to Guinan." Her mind was racing.

"Of course," Deanna said agreeably, recognizing her friend's single-minded enthusiasm.

"Thank you." Almost out the door, Beverly turned back and breezed over to Dalen's bed. She leaned down and kissed his cheek. "If I'm right, you may get out of that bed one day." She squeezed his arm and flew out the door.

Deanna sighed comfortably. "Well, Dr. Quaice, it's just you and me for a while. I'm teaching the children who live here to read and maybe, some day, some of them will be able to read to you, but, in the meantime, I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

She picked up Beverly's book and was about to open it when she felt the strangest sensation. Frozen with her hands on the tome, she tried to identify the emotion that she had simply struck her out of the blue. It felt like a happiness, or jolliness—a mirth. She looked up at Dalen, but the doctor lay completely immobile, staring emptily out at the room. Deanna closed her eyes to concentrate.

"You can hear me, can't you, Dr. Quaice?" She received no answer, but she knew the answer, nevertheless, from an amorphous feeling in the room. Since she was a child, Deanna had known that she was more aware of people's moods than others were. Sometimes, it seemed like an intuition, but other times, as now, it felt to Deanna as though someone else's emotions had pushed their way into her psyche and she experienced them as vividly as the other person had. Growing up, her father had not understood the young Deanna's purported understanding of the feelings or thoughts of their various house guests or of their slaves, but her mother always had.

As happy as she was to learn that Dalen was conscious and aware of his surroundings, Deanna was unsure whether she should say anything to Beverly or to anyone else. Who would ever believe her?

"I think, for right now, this will just be our little secret, doctor." She said cheerfully. Patting his hand, she opened the book.

* * *

 _Nov. 2, 1861_

 _Dear Jean-Luc,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well and well away from the front lines. I'm afraid I have bad news._

 _With respect to your inquiry as to transport for your heirloom, although there has been no major fighting reported, my sources tell me that the countryside remains quite skittish and rumors abound about fighting virtually everywhere from Richmond to the capital. I have been advised personally not to travel south of Philadelphia. I do not know if you have a man in Georgia taking care of your affairs, but it would be most inadvisable for him to try to travel north at this time with your treasured possession._

 _Unfortunately, my recommendation at this time must be not to try to sell your asset. Might it be possible for you to wait, for instance, another six to nine months? Ironically, it may be easier to detect safer routes of passage and commerce once the fighting begins in earnest and we are able to ascertain which areas will not be involved._

 _I suggest that we keep in touch. Advise of any change in your situation and I will do same._

 _I remain,_

 _Your devoted servant,_

 _Walker Keel_

Jean-Luc tossed the letter on his desk after he read it aloud and looked to his companions, Will and Wesley. The former, sitting in his own chair that he had brought into the captain's tent, stroked his beard reflectively. "I see what he's saying. Until the battle lines are clearly drawn, any place could be a potential hot spot."

From his perch on the captain's cot, Wesley looked at Jean-Luc for permission to speak but also for confirmation of his analysis.

"Yes, Wesley?" Jean-Luc prompted.

Wesley sat up straight and swallowed. "Well, sir, I disagree with your friend's conclusion."

"How so?"

It pained Wesley to contradict Will Riker, but the lieutenant seemed unfazed. He even looked interested in what the youth was going to say. "Right now, while we don't know where the fighting will take place, there also _isn't_ any serious fighting taking place. There must be a lot of areas where armies aren't in position and couldn't be ready to attack for a long time. Why not take advantage of those areas?"

Will knew of a few reasons not to. "How can you be sure an area is empty of enemy soldiers? How good is your intelligence? If the Union forces are back behind their lines, how far back are they? How can you be sure if you can't get over there and see for yourself? And what about enemy spies? Is it safe to travel through areas without army encampments even though they may be crawling with spies?"

Wesley had not thought of those questions.

Jean-Luc smiled at each of his soldiers, proud of both of them. "You're both right, of course. We can never be sure that any county or riverbank or dirt road is completely safe. However, we're trying to move one young man through the countryside, not an entire army. Lt. Riker's caution is well heeded by command, however, I would have preferred to take the risk with respect to . . . our smaller mission."

"Do you trust your friend Walker's assessment?"

Jean-Luc sighed. "Whether I do or not is immaterial. He will not be in Washington to meet us, therefore the entire plan is postponed."

"Could we come up with another plan?" Wesley asked.

The young man's creativity and refusal to give up were things that Jean-Luc admired in him. "What did you have in mind?"

The three of them tossed around ideas for a time, but did not come up with a viable alternative to the original idea.

"In some ways, it would be easier for Wesley to wander off in the middle of a battle," Will said. "There will be casualties and confusion—"

"There will be Union soldiers looking to kill or capture him," Jean-Luc added.

"But, if I change into civilian clothes right away—" Wesley tried.

"A young man of draft age, walking on a side road not far from the site of a battle?" Jean-Luc pointed out the obvious problem.

"I would stick to the woods, travel at night and hide during the day."

Will shook his head. "There'd be soldiers, in units or fanning out ahead, in the woods. It's risky."

"We're going to have to take risks no matter what we do," Jean-Luc conceded.

Wesley could not analytically move past what he saw as the obvious. "Then, the best thing to do is to leave now. I could go into town to pick up some . . . sugar and—"

"And how do you get to the railroad? What do you say to a senior officer from another company or regiment who spots you?" Will asked.

"I'll say that I'm on special assignment. I'm scouting locations for our next camp—"

"No," Jean-Luc said.

"It won't work," Will added. "Traveling by rail to scout locations?"

Wesley thought intensely. "What if I were injured? If I had my arm in a sling or walked with crutches?"

Jean-Luc considered that ruse as his men watched him. Finally, he nodded. "I like that idea, but you still have to connect to Walker."

"If I'm injured, maybe I could travel farther by myself."

The captain shook his head. "You'd have to begin your journey as a wounded Confederate soldier, then change guises at some point. Too risky to manage by yourself."

Riker had another critique. "It'd be easier to get lost in the crowd if there were a crowd of wounded soldiers. Later on, once there are more battles being fought, it'll be easier to pose as an injured man."

Jean-Luc nodded in agreement.

Wesley was not happy. "It would also be easier for me to _actually_ be injured in a battle."

"You'll be with the captain," Riker countered, "not in the midst of battle with the rest of the men."

"Like captains never get shot at."

Jean-Luc looked at him sharply.

"Um, no disrespect, sir. I just meant that it would be more dangerous once the company is involved in the fighting."

"Granted, it will be." Jean-Luc looked deadly serious. "We do not have an easy task ahead of us. Unfortunately, without the ability to see what's going on beyond Confederate lines, I have to trust Walker's judgment." He sighed, resigned to a course of action—or inaction, more accurately—that he would not have chosen if the decision had been up to him.

Wesley opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. Over the protracted discussion of tactics, Will or the captain had shot down all of his suggestions. He resolved to think about his situation and possible escape routes while drilling with the men, then raise any new plans he could dream up to the captain. He just needed some time to think the conundrum through.

Will produced a jug of alcohol and three shot glasses and asked merrily, "How about a drink?"

* * *

At the sound of Sheriff Q's triumphant yells, Vash preceded Kyle out of her house and on to the verandah. Sheriff Q stood in the front driveway, with rope, tools, some coins, a knife and broken pieces of wood in his hands, which he held up high. "We found a place where the fence was cut and put back together. Slaves could escape just by, kind of, opening up the hole in the fence, then putting the pieces back together," he tried to demonstrate with the wooden planks, "when they got through." He dropped the knife, tools, coins and rope. "Uh, these things were hidden in a hole in the ground by the fence. The slaves would take them and," he bent over to pick them up, dropping the wood in the process, "use them while they were on the run."

Vash stared wide-eyed at the evidence she had hoped would never materialize. Not that she suspected that smugglers were operating secretly on her property. Over the weeks of unending persecution, she had eventually suspected that Kyle, or someone in cahoots with him, would plant evidence. Now, it had happened. She pointed accusingly at Sheriff Q, but spoke without raising her voice. "I don't believe those items were simply found on my land. I think someone put them there to frame me." She turned defiantly to Kyle.

With a cold smile, Kyle said, "Very well, Mrs. DeLancie. That can be your defense at trial. The law is clear-cut, I'm afraid. You'll have to be placed under arrest."

"Arrest?" Vash's hand flew up to her collarbone in disbelief.

"Sheriff!" Kyle called down to the bumbling lawman. "Take this woman into custody."

"Custody? Vash?" Sheriff Q sounded confused.

"She's allowed this criminal conspiracy to flourish."

"But," Sheriff Q's face contorted unattractively. "This evidence doesn't implicate her directly. All this tells us is that _someone_ on her land was involved. It could've been some of the slaves doin' it. It isn't conclusive." He was rather proud of his ability to recall something from the law enforcement manual he had read at his first job in Atlanta a decade ago.

"That's right," Vash seconded.

Appealing to Sheriff Q's newfound interest in the law, Kyle spouted, "Slaves are only the property of their masters . . . and mistresses." He looked down at Vash. "As property they cannot be held liable under the law the way a white man—or woman—can be."

"Wait, you don't think—" Vash began.

"I do think!" Kyle's voice rose with his imagined importance to inject the proceedings with gravity. "This is all your fault! You harbored these criminals! They must have taken hold on your property after your husband left. You should be ashamed of yourself." He thought she colored slightly and he fueled his accusations with her discomfort. "Or, are you involved? Are you the mastermind? Perhaps you're an abolitionist!" He lowered his voice. "No one knows very much about you, Victoria. Where you're from, who your family are."

"What are you talking about? You know I'm from Charleston. You know my family."

"I know who you say your family are, but I've never met them in Charleston."

"My parents died years ago. From yellow fever."

"So you say, but if I were to write some letters to people I know in Charleston, would anyone remember them?"

Vash had no way of knowing if he had already written those letters and learned the truth. She tried to disarm him with her most effective weapon. With her best charming smile, she tried to take his arm. "Kyle, let's go inside and talk about this, shall we?"

He grabbed her hand then slid his big paw down to her wrist, which he held tightly. "Your hands may not fit in the handcuffs."

"Hand—"

"Sheriff," Kyle called down, "you may need to bind the prisoner's hands with rope. I think the cuffs will be too large."

"Prisoner, sir?" Sheriff Q asked.

"You can't be serious." Vash was becoming increasingly certain that her neighbor was, in fact, deadly serious. "Kyle, what on earth has gotten into you? All of a sudden, you make me the target of your investigation and you badger me and my people for weeks. Did it ever occur to you that if there really is a smuggling ring operating in the county, they're running free while you have the sheriff tear my property apart?

"I don't know why I haven't heard anything from my husband, but, believe me, when he comes back on leave, he's going to be furious with you. I wouldn't be surprised if he took your senate seat!"

Vash turned to retreat into her house, but a laughing Kyle caught her elbow. "Oh, you're not going to be staying here. We have a comfortable—no, _cozy—_ little room for you down at the county jail!" He began to drag her away from the door.

"No! Stop!" Vash turned to her household staff, standing transfixed in the doorway. "Help! Help me! I order you!"

To a person, her butler, maids, cook and various young people remained still and watched Kyle Riker take their mistress by the waist and lift her off the porch. They noted how his hand slid over her breasts as he set her down in front of the sheriff. They saw the sheriff—her cousin by marriage—reluctantly and weakly tie her hands with rope and help her maneuver into the back of his wagon, into which he tossed the evidence and into which his deputies climbed. They passively stood as Vash called to them to send clothing and toiletries to her temporary residence, then resumed yelling at the white men who were carting her off. And they alone witnessed the malevolent grin on Kyle's face as Sheriff Q drove off down the drive.


	51. Chapter 51

In hindsight, both of them would later see decisions they could have made differently. Waiting a day and departing on a Sunday night, when people would be home asleep. Walking instead of riding horses. Playing along with the assumptions of the wilderness men. Fleeing as soon as they were detected. Worf was more troubled by these after-the-fact second guesses than Ro was. She chose to look forward, concentrating on how to adjust their route and activities to keep the consequences of the decisions that they had made and with which they would be forced to live for the rest of their lives.

After delivering their passengers to an increasingly bold Kern at the railroad station in the Carolina pines, Ro and Worf accepted his offer of horses to speed up their return trip home. Since they had to conceal their activities from everyone on the plantation, they needed to arrive before anyone noticed them missing. Before they had snuck out, Ro had told Silva that she felt ill and tired and would sleep in the next morning. Worf had instructed the boy who usually woke him that he did not wish to be disturbed. Even with those pretexts, however, they would have to travel and slip back into their respective houses and bedrooms undetected, which meant doing so before sunrise. They were hurrying.

The sound of the horses' hooves on the hard ground drowned out the noise that the others' horses would have made farther up on the well-traveled path. Navigating by dim moonlight, Ro led them, which would become another re-evaluated decision: if Worf had been riding in front, would he have detected the men? As it was, they were taken by surprise when the riders appeared seemingly out of nowhere and blocked the path. When one of the mysterious people lit a lantern, Ro and Worf could see that they were two white men in drooping hats, carrying guns. One of them held a large brown jug.

"What have we here? A black man with a white woman in the woods in the middle of the night?" He leaned close enough for Ro to smell his whiskey breath and see his pockmarked and stubbled face. Holding the lantern up, he examined her face closely at the same time. "But, wait," he said to her, "you ain't exactly _white_ , is you?"

There was only one safe answer to that question. "Of course, I am," Ro said defiantly, backing away from the light. "My husband is a very wealthy landowner from Georgia and I am traveling home with our house servant from visiting my sister in North Carolina. I've a long journey ahead of me and I'll thank you not to delay me."

The first man's partner approached out of the shadows. "Wealthy landowner? Travelin' at night? Twenty miles off the main road? That just don't add up, ma'am." His skepticism menaced like an empty noose swinging from a tree.

Ro held her head high. "Not that it's any of your business, but we're taking a short cut I know and hurrying home because my youngest child is sick." She could sense Worf's tension behind her and knew she would have to defuse the situation before he thought it necessary to act. "So, I'll thank you to move out of our way and let us pass."

"I don't think so," whiskey-breath said. "There's sumthin' suspicious like going on here and I aim to run the two of you in to the sheriff—"

To his credit, Worf considered flight before fight. While Ro spoke with the moonshiners, he discreetly evaluated the terrain ahead of them, as best he could see it, for an escape route. About twenty feet past the men, another path branched out from the main trail, but even from his vantage point, Worf could see a young tree growing too close to where they would need to pass on.

"You're obviously operating a still back here," Ro retorted. "I don't think you'll turn me in to the sheriff so that he can find out about your illegal operation"

The man scoffed. "The sheriff is 'obviously' one of our best customers." His partner joined him in an ugly laugh. "And he'd be mighty happy if I was to bring him a kidnapper or a escaped slave. Git off that horse, honey. You can ride with me and I'll take the ni—"

"You'll do nothing of the sort," Ro said in her best haughty voice. "We're passing through. Move aside." With sharp heels to its flanks, her horse started forward. His eyes on the men, Worf moved behind her.

Whiskey Breath reached out and grabbed her arm. "Oh, no, you don't."

Worf charged at him, scaring his horse and forcing him to let go of Ro to calm his mount.

"Hey!" The other man yelled and Ro and Worf heard the cocking of a gun.

Worf raised his shotgun and an explosion ripped the night as the buckshot tore into the tree that blocked the escape route. He took advantage of the moonshiners' shock to flee down the path.

Muttering "damn" under her breath, Ro followed, easing her frightened horse past the remnants of the tree as quickly as she could.

But the men settled their horses and followed as well.

Worf had turned down a side trail that was overgrown from lack of use and the ground was very uneven. Pushing their unfamiliar horses to move faster than they wanted, Worf and Ro clumsily navigated, never able to put a safe distance between them and their pursuers.

Shots rang out.

"Are you all right?" Worf called over his shoulder.

"Yes! But this is crazy. Eventually, they're going to hit one of us."

Worf knew it was true. He tried to think of an alternative, but his mind kept returning to the one option that he knew would solve all their problems.

They heard loud hooting noises behind them. "We gonna turn you in, you abolitionists! Gonna get a nice reward!"

They had been discovered and there was only one way to avoid eventual, if not imminent, arrest. Worf suddenly spun his horse around.

"What are you—" Ro stopped when she saw Worf level his rifle and she realized what he was doing.

"Get behind me!" He growled.

"No." Struggling with her uncooperative horse, Ro turned as best she could and drew her revolver. "I have to do this."

She fired before he could argue with her and before the white men knew what had, literally, in the case of the first man, hit them. Whiskey Breath fell off his horse, struck in the chest by Ro's well-aimed shot. Anticipating return fire, Ro and Worf both slid off their horses and used the animals for cover. Worf eyed the surrounding terrain to find advantageous ground.

The second man dismounted, dropping his heavy jug in the process. "Beau, oh, Beau, speak to me. Speak to me, brother! Are you alive?" He kneeled over the wounded man, carelessly letting his own gun fall next to his foot.

Worf hesitated, feeling a connection, however faint, to the man who would shortly begin mourning the loss of his brother.

"Stand up!" Ro's voice was loud and commanding as she slowly walked toward the two men, her gun pointed at them.

"You shot my brother! You killed him!"

"Stand up or I'll kill you, too."

Above them, clouds drifted past the waning moon, unknowingly abetting Ro by allowing more light to filter through the trees to where her antagonist rose to his feet.

"We didn't want no trouble. We just makes our whiskey and sells it. We don't want no trouble." His voice shook as much as his legs.

"Well, you started this trouble."

"We don't—ma'am, I want to 'pologize. We didn't mean nothing by—"

Ro shot him in the face from about twenty feet away.

His initial shock wearing off quickly, Worf calmed the horses and led them over to his companion. For her part, Ro did not appear to be unsettled by the two murders. She stepped over the first man's body, avoided that of the second man, and found the moonshine jug sticking out of a prickly bush. With her revolver, she shot it. Liquid flowed darkly in the shadows, away from the bush and puddling along the second man's still arm.

"It will look like they ran into some competitors. Poor whites, lawbreakers, no one will care."

Worf was not so sure. "You did not have to kill them."

"Yes, we did, Worf. You know we did. This is too close to home. If they talked, we would've been found out." Ro continued to talk, to reassure Worf and, quite possibly, herself as well. "I had to be the one to do it. I can always claim self-defense. If you had killed white men—even lowlifes like these two—they would have hung you."

 _They still could,_ Worf thought. "We must go. The shots may attract someone."

Ro nodded. She scanned the men's belongings then rifled through the lone saddle bag, on the first horse. She pulled out a wad of paper money then stuffed it back in and lifted the whole bag off the horse's rump. "We have to make it look like a robbery."

Worf was nervously looking around and listening for the sounds of hooves or footsteps. He felt a great sense of relief when his partner finally mounted her horse and they resumed their journey.

An hour later, after they had navigated their way along the unfamiliar path, crossed a main highway, and skirted a small South Carolina town, Ro spoke for the first time. "You don't like what I did, do you?"

Worf did not want to sow contention between the two of them, but, truthfully, he had been very troubled since the shootings. "I do not like that you . . . that the men were killed."

Ro glanced sideways at her most trusted partner in crime. "It had to be done. You were ready to do it yourself."

Although, at the time, he had definitely contemplated murder, Worf had not been quite ready to do it. "We could have shot into the air and frightened their horses. Or shot them in the legs so that they could not keep following us."

Ro shook her head. "They would have told someone about us. A big black man and a woman who's not quite white, traveling alone in the woods at night. With Senator Riker looking for a smuggling ring in the county. It might take some time, but eventually the law would catch up to us. If they didn't just arrest me and kill you right away as miscegenists."

Worf's confusion and concern were not alleviated by her use of an unknown word. "As what?"

"As . . . as lovers."

Worf came as close as he ever did to blushing. He did not say anything in response and the two continued through a pine forest, perhaps an hour and a half before dawn and past the border into Georgia.

Ro felt the silence like a boulder on her shoulders. "You know, the other side would have done the same to us. If not those two, then their local sheriff. And if not him, then our sheriff."

In the lead, Worf guided his horse down a winding, rocky slope along the lake. Although he distinguished between the summary execution that Ro had carried out and the due process to which she, if not him, would most likely be entitled upon arrest, he had a more important point to make. Uneasy in his saddle at the bottom of the hill as he watched her ease her mount down, he waited until she joined him.

"I do not take comfort," he said, "in being the same as them. They have no morality, no honor. I do not wish to be that kind of man. I do not wish to set that kind of example for my son."

Ro scoffed. "Worf, our cause is righteous. We're saving people's lives, helping them to freedom. Anything we do to forward that cause is justified. We're not the same as the oppressors."

Worf took a longer look at her than their hurried schedule allowed. He had long admired Ro's courage and defiance. She was a heroine, without question. All his life, he had often been hotheaded and eager to strike blows against his enemy. If asked his stance on fatal attacks in the name of freedom, he would have probably answered as Ro had. Somehow, he now realized, he had changed. His words were well-considered and solemnly delivered. "We _are_ in the right. But that does not give us the right to take the lives of others. No matter who they are." Seeing the matter as closed, he pulled on the reins and moved off at a quick pace.

Sure of her convictions but less sure of her companion, Ro looked out over the lake for a moment as if searching for answers. Not finding any, her gaze fell on the graying horizon, which reminded her that their time was short. "Come on," she said to her tired horse as she continued on her path.

* * *

J.P. Hanson sat in Dalen Quaice's combination sitting room and library and nervously twisted his silk handkerchief, a gift from his friend Jean-Luc Picard. In another room of the house, the new local physician, Dr. Timicin, was operating on his wife, Nelda. J.P. and Nelda had been married for forty-eight years and he knew immediately when she teetered on the staircase in their home, clutching her belly, that she was gravely ill. By the time he had driven her to the doctor's house, her skin was cold and clammy and she was sweating more than he had ever seen her perspire before. He was not especially given to prayer, but J.P. rested his elbows on his knees, folded his hands in front of him and begged God to save his wife's life.

Inside the operating room, things were not proceeding well. Dr. Timicin had cut open Nelda's abdomen and found a large number of tumors. "They're riddled throughout her body. I've never seen anything like this," he mumbled. Here and there, he poked and lifted parts of the bulbous masses, without bothering to remove them. He silently catalogued the pervasiveness of the disease.

Kate was pragmatic. They had opened up their patient several minutes ago, under anesthesia. "Doctor, if we don't do something soon, we're going to lose her."

Timicin shook his head. "Nurse, there's nothing I can do. The infection has spread too far. There's no known way to stop—what are you doing?"

Dr. Timicin looked up, shocked, as Kate left the patient's side, quickly dipped her hands into the washbasin, then began to put on her coat. "I'm going to get Beverly Crusher."

"The former nurse?"

"I'll have to take your carriage."

"She won't be able to do anything. She's just a—"

"Maybe not, but I'd never forgive myself if I didn't give her a chance to try."

With his eyes closed in prayer and his mind in meditation, J.P. never saw Kate hurry the carriage down the street or back up it fifteen minutes later with Beverly in tow. To avoid him, the women entered the house from the back. Beverly had put her hair up on the ride; she quickly tied a long apron around her neck and waist and washed her hands with rubbing alcohol. Exhaling to steel herself, she led Kate into the operating room.

Dr. Timicin stood there, a scalpel in one hand and an instrument holding open the patient's abdominal cavity in the other, doing nothing. "This is preposterous!" He fumed. "A mere nurse coming into a surgery as though she can perform minute operations. This patient is dying. I suspect she won't last the night."

At Nelda's side as soon as she entered the room, Beverly's eyes remained on the invasive disease she saw in the woman's body. Kate handed her clean tools.

"All right," Beverly said calmly. "It appears that she has cancer of the stomach—"

"You can't know where it started," Timicin interrupted.

"—which has spread to most of the other major organs." Using the scalpel, Beverly lifted a small cyst on the liver to examine the extent of the invasion in that life-necessary organ. "There isn't much damage to the liver. That's good."

"Good? You don't know what you're talking about. Which is not surprising because you're uneducated."

Beverly spared a quick glare at him at that remark, but immediately returned to her examination. "How long have you had her open?" She asked without looking up.

"Counting my nurse's misguided journey, thirty minutes—"

"Thirty minutes and you haven't even started cutting out the tumors? Kate, I'm going to need a metal pan to—"

Dr. Timicin grabbed her wrist. "What do you think you're doing?"

Beverly looked at him then, her eyes fiery and her voice as strong as the oak tree in the yard. "I'm going to remove these tumors and try to—"

He tightened his hold. "You have no concept of what you are doing and that patient is a dead woman! There's no saving her and I will not allow you to cut her up like some sort of female butcher. This is an operating room and I am the physician."

Beverly resisted the urge to pull out of his grip for fear the knife in her hand would cause injury to someone in the room. "I'll thank you to lower your voice, _doctor,_ since this patient's husband of some forty years is in the waiting room down the hall, his every hope hanging on the sounds he hears coming from this room."

Her warning was well-meaning, but unfortunately late, because J.P had indeed heard the words "dead woman" and "female butcher," which brought him to his unsteady feet and led him to open the door of the operating room.

Dr. Timicin turned at the sound of the door. "You can't be in here. It's not appropriate."

Kate was already moving to shield J.P. from the sight of his wife's open body.

"Is she dead?" J.P. asked in a choked voice.

Beverly looked to Dr. Timicin.

"Eh, Mr. Hanson, we should discuss this matter in my office." He let go of Beverly and backed away from the table.

"No," J.P. said firmly. "We'll discuss it right here, right now."

Dr. Timicin felt the situation slipping out of his control. "Very well." He straightened to deliver the news. "I'm very sorry to inform you that your wife has incurable cancer. I don't believe she has much longer to live."

J.P. flinched. Taking a step to look past Kate, he addressed Beverly. "What do you think, Mrs. Crusher?"

"Mrs. Crusher is not a medical doctor," Dr. Timicin quickly inserted. "It would be neither ethical nor wise for her to render an opinion as to your wife's condition."

"I don't care," J.P. bristled, still looking at Beverly. "I want to know what _you_ think, Mrs. Crusher." Then, he softened his manner, abandoning the courtroom voice that his anger and fear had summoned. "Please, Beverly."

The last time Beverly had seen J.P. Hanson he had been marrying her to Jean-Luc. Now, she stood with her hands inside the body of the woman he loved. Understanding how he must feel about the possibility of losing his life mate, Beverly was ready to do anything she could to save Nelda. She nodded and spoke with compassion. "Mr. Hanson, I'm so sorry. I'm afraid Dr. Timicin's diagnosis is correct. Mrs. Hanson has an advanced case of cancer. I believe I can surgically remove much of it, which should give her some more time, but eventually . . . ."

"How much more time?"

Beverly looked down at the masses ravaging her patient as she considered the question. "Has she ever complained of stomach pains before today? Has she ever had any problems with digestion?"

J.P. tried to think clearly, which was not easy in the direst situation he could ever remember being in. "There was one time, . . . she had some trouble at her sister's house. Spit up some blood."

"Do you remember when that was? Try to be as exact as possible."

How the hell can I be exact? J.P. thought. As he remembered the incident, it came to him. It had happened on Thanksgiving, almost a year ago. When he told Beverly, her tense face seemed to relax some. "Is that a good thing?" He asked.

"It's hard to tell, but—""

"It's impossible to tell!" Dr. Timicin fumed.

"—if these tumors grew that slowly, it's possible that the cancer will come back slowly. She might have another year, but . . . ," she paused for emphasis, "I can't guarantee anything." Again, she regarded the surgical task before her, then looked up into the pleading, watery eyes of one of her husband's good friends. "I'll do everything I can." She blinked rapidly to stop her own eyes from tearing up.

"You'll do nothing of the sort." Furious, Dr. Timicin moved toward Nelda, but was stopped by J.P.'s hand on his arm.

"Doctor, I'll go to court and get a judge to stop you if I have to. I want Beverly Crusher to operate on my wife."

"I can't allow it. It's not ethical."

"I'm her husband and I can decide what happens to her. If I say I want this operation, I'm going to get it. Now, should I call the sheriff or are you going to walk out of this room with me?"

Such interference by a layman was unheard of in Dr. Timicin's long experience. He lacked the legal background to know whether J.P. would actually be able to achieve his threatened goals. Before he could think of an appropriate rebuke, however, Beverly spoke up.

"Actually, I'd like Dr. Timicin to stay and assist me, if he's willing."

"Me, assist _you?"_

"If you're willing. If not, then you can go see the sheriff. Either way, we need to start right now." With a nod to Kate, who moved to the opposite side of the table, Beverly began. "Please hold this here, that's it."

Dr. Timicin's mind began to work feverishly on a strategy. Perhaps, he reasoned, it would be better to stay and observe the butcher commit her bodily assault so that he could testify against her after he had her arrested. He drifted back to the table as J.P. backed farther away. The two men heard a metallic clank as Beverly's forceps touched the edge of the metal pan into which she deposited the tumor she had expertly sliced off the liver.

With Dr. Timicin and Kate's assistance, Beverly was able to patiently locate and cut away a large number of tumors, without damaging the underlying tissue. After he had seen how minutely and carefully she cut the cancerous cells, Dr. Timicin refrained from further criticism. He found her technique remarkable, especially for a woman.

Beverly worked meticulously and the hours-long surgery tired her more than she had expected. After every tumor that could be seen had been removed, she paused.

"Beverly, would you like a glass of water?" Kate asked.

She nodded.

Kate poured a glass from a pitcher in the kitchen and held it for Beverly to drink.

"Doc—Mrs. Crusher," Dr. Timicin said, "would you like me to close for you? You've done the bulk of the work here. It's the least I could do."

Not usually one to trust another physician, Beverly was about to say no, when she began to feel light-headed. "Um, yes, that would be fine." She shoved her instruments into Kate's hands.

"Beverly? Are you all right?"

Having spent years in this house and in this very room, Beverly knew there was an armchair behind her, in the corner, which Dalen kept in case he needed to take a break after a lengthy procedure. She had never had need of it herself, however, until today. The dizzy feeling in her head worsened and she simultaneously reached for Kate's arm and tried to walk to the chair, failing at both efforts and crumbling to the floor.

From his post on the other side of the patient, Dr. Timicin directed, "Mrs. Pulaski, please help Mrs. Crusher into the chair and revive her with smelling salts, then return to assist me."

In contrast to the doctor's businesslike demeanor, Kate was suffering a flashback to Dalen's collapse in that very room. "This could be serious."

"It's not serious," Dr. Timicin said as he continued to stitch the wound closed. "She's merely overtired and she fainted. Women faint all the time."

Kate already had the smelling salts and she knelt next to Beverly, propping up her head and waving the pungent bag under her nose.

"Mmm," Beverly stirred, her eyes fluttered, then she woke abruptly. "Kate? What—"

"It's all right," Kate calmed her, "you just fainted. Dr. Timicin is closing for you."

Beverly strained to remember. She felt a pain in the side of her head, where it must have hit the floor. "Good," she said, as she slowly stood up, removed her apron and smoothed the front of her skirt. "We'll need to clean everything."

"Mrs. Pulaski, will you please see to cleaning the patient, the instruments and the linens?" Dr. Timicin ordered. "Mrs. Crusher, it is not your place to do such menial work." He continued to stitch and Beverly could see that his own work was quite neat and careful. However, she felt offended by what she was sure he had intended as a compliment. She noted the irony that the doctor had treated her like a servant only hours ago.

"I don't mind helping. I've been doing it for years." She turned to Kate to take the instruments from her.

"Nonsense. You're obviously a skilled surgeon, not a housekeeper." He did not even look up to deliver his insults.

A clear picture of his personality coalesced in Beverly's mind in that instant. He was a snob, she concluded. The only thing that had changed was that he now considered her one of his group and not a member of the other, lesser class to which he had originally consigned her. Despite their amicable partnership during the lengthy surgery, Beverly found herself disgusted by the man's attitude. But, the operating room was hardly the place to have an argument. More than anything, she wanted him to finish caring for Mrs. Hanson. She let Kate take the bloody scalpels.

Focusing instead on her post-operative patient's needs, Beverly crossed the room to the counter where her jars of herbal remedies, seemingly untouched by their new owner, sat. She opened one containing healing leaves and set a large, moist one on a towel, then addressed Kate.

"These leaves should be applied to the wound twice a day. Also . . . ." As Beverly reached for a second container, she suddenly felt strangely light-headed again and instead gripped the counter. She closed her eyes, hoping it would pass.

"Beverly?" She heard Kate's voice, then everything and everyone disappeared.

When she woke, Beverly was lying on a bed in one of the upstairs bedrooms in twilight. She inhaled the dry scent of Patricia Quaice's stored linens, which Beverly herself was in the habit of removing from the cedar chest at the foot of the bed and washing once a year. The stiff sheet brushed against her hands. When she raised her head off the pillow, the same peculiar feeling returned.

"Oooooh," she moaned, wondering what why she felt so light-headed as she lay her head back down. She did not subscribe to the view that some people held, that cancer was contagious, since modern medical research had debunked it. Of course, her marathon in the operating room could have exhausted her, but Beverly felt it was more than simple fatigue that kept her from springing out of the bed.

She lay still for perhaps a half hour, drifting in and out of sleep, hearing faraway voices and noises that she was unable to process as emanating from the hallway. Eventually, Kate stuck her head in the bedroom and the creaking door jarred Beverly into wakefulness.

"What's going on?" She asked her visitor.

Kate checked behind her, then entered the room and sat on a straight-backed chair that she pulled out of a corner of the small room and set down next to the bed.

"Beverly," she began, "you've been a good friend to me when I needed help."

Beverly wondered where Kate's talk was leading with such an ominous beginning. It sounded as though Kate was going to do her some sort of favor.

"I had my suspicions in the operating room, but I brought you up here to check you for myself. I didn't think Dr. Timicin needed to know."

"Know what?"

"Let's just say, it's a good thing I returned to midwifery, because you are going to need a midwife."

"A mid—" Beverly's initial confusion cleared and she realized that Kate was giving her the joyful news she had longed to hear—only she had expected to tell it to herself. A scare-did she understand Kate correctly? "You mean, I'm going to have a baby?"

"Yes."

Beverly's heart began to race. "How do you, did you . . . ?"

"Why, I used your own notes. You left very detailed journals and one entry described Chatworth's sign."

A doctor Chatworth had revolutionized midwifery by discovering external physiological changes to a woman's private parts when she was pregnant. That was it, Beverly thought. If Kate had noted Chatworth's sign, then Beverly was definitely going to have a baby. Jean-Luc's and her baby.

A sense of peace flowed over her, a serenity, as she centered her thoughts around the tiny life growing inside her and her hands instinctively moved to cover her stomach. Their baby, created in love, in the beauty of the act of love. She was going to be a mother again and give Jean-Luc the gift of fatherhood. As she lay her head back down on the pillow, she smiled and felt herself glowing with happiness.

She looked up to see Kate frowning at her and remembered that, to most of the world, she was an unmarried woman. Her smile vanished.

"Beverly, as I said, you were a good friend to me and I never had a way to thank you for your help." Kate looked uncomfortable with the evidence of what she believed to be pre-marital sex. "I will keep your secret and deliver your baby, but you will have to have a period of confinement, once your pregnancy starts showing."

Kate was right. Beverly's head started to spin from the complexity of her situation.

Somehow, Beverly remembered to say, "Thank you."

Apparently just as eager to evade the awkwardness of the moment, Kate sprang up. "Good. Now, I'm going to get you a delicious and nutritious dinner for you and that baby."

Left alone with her momentous news, Beverly laid her hands on her still flat abdomen and thought of all the exciting possibilities. First and foremost in her mind was the gender of her baby. Would she give Jean-Luc a son, which he presumably wanted? Or, having already born one son, would she have a daughter? Would their child inherit her red hair, as generations of Howard women had before her? Beverly realized that she did not know what color Jean-Luc's hair had been before it turned gray. As a child, she wondered, was his hair brown, like his nephew René? What would they name their child—an American name or a French one? She supposed Jean-Luc would prefer a French name—

Her eyes had drifted shut in serene contemplation, but they opened suddenly when she remembered that, from everything she had observed, Jean-Luc did not like children. How had she forgotten that? Although she had no doubt of his love for her, she had no reason to believe that he would love or even want to see the natural product of that love. How would he react to the news that he was going to be a father at his age? Would parenthood change their relationship, so new and so passionate? Would this child come between them?

For that matter, how could she even tell him about the baby? She posted letters to him posing as his public wife—Miss Ro—who likely would not know about Beverly Crusher's pregnancy. And, if Miss Ro did find out, to reveal it in correspondence that was screened by someone, such as Q, would create a scandal. Beverly would not have to wear a literal scarlet A, but the effect on her life would be the same: shame, ostracism, life-long stigma.

In other words, as an unwed mother, Beverly would be subject to the same social treatment that she suffered as the mother of an abolitionist. Since she had already been vilified, she thought, she had nothing left to lose. As soon as she began to show, Miss Ro could be expected to notice and write to her husband with the gossip. The only difference would be that her young child would also bear the ignominy of her alleged illicit act. But, surely, that would not be permanent, would it?

What would the future bring for her child, for her, for Wesley, for Jean-Luc? Lying in Dalen's guest room, Beverly had no idea. According to Jean-Luc, the war would change everything about their lives, but even he had admitted that, so far, the Union's lack of progress did not promise rapid success. Perhaps the South would win the war and nothing would change.

If that happened, Beverly concluded, they would just have to move to France. Yes, her son or daughter would have a French name and would have to learn to speak French growing up. She resolved to brush up her own French language skills by conversing with Marie and reading her books. Having a plan made Beverly feel more comfortable, more prepared. She sighed and closed her eyes to rest before Kate returned with the meal. She had not intended to fall asleep, but her body had other ideas.

Beverly dreamed of a sunny world where Jean-Luc and she were together and he was happy, even laughing, with their child.


	52. Chapter 52

Hello, Wonderful Readers: just a short update today, but I've been writing a lot lately and hope to give you more soon. Stay warm, in all senses of the word, and please enjoy. Best wishes, Liz

* * *

 _My Dearest Wife,_

 _I hope you are keeping well, as the days grow shorter and, in Virginia, at least, cloudier. I think of you often and how your presence would brighten my life immeasurably in this encroaching darkness._

 _Although there has been a battle northwest of us and some small skirmishes throughout the area, our company has not yet met the enemy. There is no way of knowing what lies ahead, day to day, but the threat does not appear to be imminent. I can't explain it, but the Yankee armies do not seem to be prepared to invade our territory. I know that you, as I, count this among our many blessings._

 _I do feel better knowing that you are in charge of things on our land. I have come to trust your instincts and your intellect and, if I ever doubted you, mon amour, I apologize. You have more than proven yourself up to the task. I consider myself exceedingly fortunate that the woman I love is as capable as she is beautiful._

 _Do you perhaps remember the family heirloom I have been attempting to remove from the house for safekeeping due to its great value? My contacts advise that it is not wise to ship it now, I'm afraid. I shall have to wait for a more opportune time._

 _You may be interested to know that one of our local women, Mrs. Nella Barclay, remains with our company and has made a noticeable improvement in the company's meals, for which we are all grateful. Has Mrs. O'Brien begun to provide laundry services to the estate? I hope that that arrangement will work for all involved. I heard that Mrs. Crusher was recalled due to Dr. Quaice's dire medical condition, news of which I was very sorry to hear. Dalen is a friend and I hope you will keep me updated as to his health. I will keep him in my prayers._

 _Words alone cannot describe how much I long to see you again. With each promising dawn and soothing sunset, I see your beautiful face. I dream and wake with you in my thoughts, hearing your laughter, seeing the twinkle in your eyes. Whenever I see something interesting—flowers, church architecture, a stone bridge over a bubbling brook, et cetera—I wish that I could share it with you. When someone says something funny, I find myself wanting to hear what your comment would be. To touch you, to kiss you—these hopes keep me going. I pray that we will be reunited soon and will do everything I can to persuade command to grant us leave to come home for the holidays._

 _With all my love,_

 _Your Devoted Husband_

* * *

 _My Darling Husband,_

 _How I miss you! As the nights grow colder here, I long to lie beside you for the warmth of your presence._

 _I was so happy to hear that you have not seen battle and are not in danger. As you reminded me, this can change at any time, I know, but I will continue to have faith in your ability and that of our Confederate Army in general, to keep you safe._

 _We are all well here. Marie is busily knitting and sewing clothing for Deanna Riker's baby. Deanna herself visits frequently, lifting all our spirits with her cheerfulness. Keiko O'Brien found, upon her return, that her house had been rented to another family, so we are accommodating her family here, at my house. She has been quite helpful and her children have found playmates among the other children. The biggest news, however, is that Keiko is expecting again, with the baby due next summer. It shouldn't have been a surprise, I suppose, since she spent so much time with her husband. Naturally, she's thrilled and her husband must be very happy as well upon hearing the news._

 _Dr. Quaice is alive, but not able to move or speak. Mrs. Crusher has returned to live with Marie and has moved Dr. Quaice into the house as well, to more easily care for him. Marie reports that Mrs. Crusher and she tend to him, but so far there is no sign of any improvement or, thankfully, deterioration. No one knows how long he will last or if he will ever recover. I'm sorry to bring you sad news of your friend, but perhaps there is some hope there._

 _I'm afraid I have further news of illness affecting one of your friends. J.P. Hanson's wife was diagnosed and treated for cancer by the new local doctor. She is on the mend after a serious surgery and J.P. has temporarily suspended his law practice to care for her. Her condition is terminal and we don't know how long she has to live. Per my instructions, Guinan has assigned a girl to cook and deliver his meals. You may wish to send him a note._

 _You will no doubt hear that there has been a scandalous arrest: Senator Riker discovered that Vash DeLancie was harboring a slave smuggling ring! Of course, I don't have any details, but apparently she remains at the county jail awaiting trial. Plus, recently, there's been a rumor that some smugglers may have killed two men in South Carolina and Mrs. DeLancie's name has been mentioned. I heard that her friend, Alynna Nechayev, has visited her and is arranging for a lawyer. It's all very odd and disturbing, of course, but hopefully all this business of smuggling in the county is behind us._

 _How can I possibly wait until I see you again? I miss you so much. It would be wonderful to see you at Christmas. I will have a very special present for you, but you must be here to receive it in person. I think of you each night as I drift off to sleep and I see your face each morning as I awake. My thoughts are with you and my prayers for your safety, as always._

 _Sending you my love,_

 _Your Loving Wife_

* * *

"How would I know anything about moonshiners killed in South Carolina?" Ro's protest came out sounding more belligerent than, as she had intended, innocent. She extended a knife to slice off some butter for her biscuit.

On the other side of the breakfast table, Silva's glare could have ignited a fire. "Don't try to tell me you weren't out in those woods late at night. I know you snuck out and I have a pretty good idea who snuck out with you." The tall woman sat up straight, with her hands resting on either side of her plate. "You could get yourself—or your partner—killed. And just what do you think would happen to the rest of us if you got found out?"

Ro set her knife loudly down on her plate. "Silva, you know that they arrested Vash for smuggling. No one suspects us. If anything, we could do more because—"

"No!" Silva's voice echoed in the dining room. "People are dying. It's too risky."

Ro could not believe what she was hearing. "Silva, people die every day in bondage. We have to do everything we can possibly do to save them."

"Don't you remember how we discussed this with the group? How we decided it was too dangerous to continue?" Silva narrowed her eyes. Seeing no understanding on the face of her stubborn and young, but all grown up, charge, Silva continued. "You've gone beyond helping to rescue people. What you're doing now is about you."

The young woman did not understand Silva's remarks, but she found them upsetting. Taking a moment to dab her face with a napkin—manners that Silva had taught her—Ro stood with a jerk, pushing her chair noisily across the floor. "You can't tell me what to do any more. You can't control me. I'm old enough to make my own decisions and that's exactly what I'm doing."

Just then, Ben stepped into the dining room. "I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?"

"No," Ro told him, her eyes on Silva as she headed toward the door. "I was just leaving."

Ben looked after her for a long moment, then turned back toward the dining room and caught Silva's eye. The older woman shook her head and Ben immediately guessed what had transpired between the two. He was not sure how he felt about it.

* * *

As she ascended the stairs of the Picard house, Deanna stopped to catch her breath several times. Her eager students had carried all her teaching supplies up and were waiting for her in the makeshift classroom. On one of her respiratory breaks, Deanna reflected on how fortune she was that her mother was unaware of her thrice weekly excursions. Before Lwaxanna even got around to protesting her teaching the children to read, she would be quite inflamed that Deanna was leaving the house in her eighth month of pregnancy and exerting herself so much. Fortunately, Deanna lived at the Riker residence and, these days, Lwaxanna was preoccupied with her new romance with Dr. Timicin.

Finally, on the second floor, Deanna heard the children—reading out loud, reciting the alphabet and laughing—while they waited for her. Passing by Dalen's room, she heard Beverly reading a book.

"Oh, Deanna," Beverly called as she jumped up. "I'd like to see you after your class. How are you feeling?" She examined her patient clinically, noting her labored breathing and red coloring.

"I feel terrific. Just a little challenged by the stairs, but that goes away quickly." Deanna smiled.

Frowning, Beverly thought she would feel more convinced after a thorough examination. "All right. I'll be in here. Just come get me when you're done."

"Will do, doctor." Deanna tried to joke normally, without showing that she was still catching her breath.

At the threshold of her classroom, Deanna saw the children, grouped roughly by age, already working on their lessons. She smiled at their studiousness and was surprised to find a tear forming in her eye. In the back of the room, sitting on a loveseat, sat Marie, reading a book to some young children, who sat next to her, on her lap and on the floor in front of her. How things have changed around here, Deanna thought.

"Miss Deanna, are you all right?"

Alexander, a very intelligent boy of about eleven, was standing in front of her.

Deanna composed herself. "I will be perfectly fine once I hear you and the others recite your lessons. We'll start with your group today, since everyone is so busy." She made her way to the comfortable chair in front and sat down. Alexander gathered the older ones and, as he walked by them, instructed the younger children to keep working on their own until it was their turn to read with Miss Deanna. Had she ever noticed Alexander's gentle way with the other children, Deanna wondered, or his natural leadership? Living under the less than ideal circumstance of slavery, she thought, he must have extraordinary parents to grow into such a confident, polite young man. She smiled as Alexander took his turn first and began to recite, hoping she would have a chance to meet his mother and father.

* * *

The opportunity to bathe herself and change into fresh clothing made Vash feel much better. Outside the cell, on the other side of the blanket held up by the two slave women who had accompanied her, Alynna sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair, keeping up her end of the conversation.

"So, it seems that it may be too close to Christmas to get anyone up here," Alynna concluded her concocted story of why no attorney from Atlanta would be swooping into the county to get her friend out of jail.

Vash stopped sponging herself. "You can't mean it! I have to sit in here until after Christmas?"

"I'm doing everything I can, but I just can't find a lawyer who'll travel up here right now. We're not exactly down the street."

"I can't believe it. Can't you offer more money? That usually motivates lawyers. You know I can pay anything they want."

Had she gone too far with her delaying tactics, Alynna asked herself. Which was better—to have Vash suspect her dishonesty or to get Vash bailed out of jail, contrary to Kyle's wishes? Alynna preferred to play both sides.

While Alynna ruminated, Vash grew nearly frantic. "I don't understand! How could there be no lawyer in the entire state who can come and get me out of this hell?"

Alynna had thought of a different excuse. "Well, it did occur to me that perhaps my connections are just putting me off out of fear."

"Fear? Of what?"

"Fear of crossing Kyle Riker. He's a very important man in Atlanta and he's even been in Richmond a large part of this year."

Exactly, thought Vash. "With so many big fish to fry, why is he going after me? He put a huge amount of time and energy into framing me. Why?"

Not hearing any sounds of water splashing in the wash basin, Alynna reminded her friend, "Do calm down enough to finish your bath, dear. Who knows how long they'll let me stay. Although, if it's just that worthless sheriff, I'm pretty sure I can scare him out of his boots."

Vash resumed her toilette. "That sheriff is going to be a worthless bum when my husband returns. Still no word from Q? Did you send another telegram?"

"Yes," Alynna lied. "We suspect the Yankees have cut the wires somewhere in Virginia and none of our telegrams are getting through."

Vash had to dry herself, using the scented towel Alynna had brought. "Even though he's worthless, Sheriff Q is still family. Yesterday, he warned me that I was being considered a suspect in another crime, something in Carolina. Do you know anything about this?"

I know where it's headed, Alynna thought. "I wouldn't worry about that if I were you. Something about some white trash in the backwoods," she said dismissively.

By this point in her surreal odyssey, Vash knew better than to ignore something that sounded preposterous. "God knows what he's going to try to pin on me next. If I'm supposed to be this big abolitionist, what in the world would I be doing in the next state mixing with backwoods white trash?"

"Who knows?" As soon as Alynna asked the question, however, she began to think that perhaps she did know. If Kyle were trying to portray Vash as an abolitionist smuggler, then the bigger her field of influence, the bigger the accolades on him for bringing her down. She had thought Kyle's plot was limited to neutralizing Q as a threat to his power locally. Now that she pieced the puzzle together, however, it looked more and more like a picture of Kyle coasting into a higher position—governor or maybe, one day, president of the Confederacy.

"Well, it's making me even more nervous," Vash said, trying to rinse the shampoo out of her hair in the basin, without any help for the first time in her life. "Ugh, you have no idea how hard it is to be imprisoned here . . . ."

Vash continued to bemoan her situation, uncomfortable and unbearable even with the mattress, blankets, pillows, food and perfume that Alynna had brought her over the last several weeks. Alynna tuned her out, however, to think about her own situation. If she played her cards right, she could end up very well situated indeed—much better off, it now seemed, than she had ever imagined.

* * *

Jean-Luc could not recall ever seeing Q so agitated. The major's babbling and pacing only enhanced Jean-Luc's calm. Seated in Q's office, Jean-Luc casually crossed his legs and exhaled, rather enjoying the show.

"Apparently, I was the only one affected by the communications problems over the last month. Were you receiving letters from home?"

"Mail delivery is often delayed for one reason or another," Jean-Luc answered diplomatically.

"Not for just one person and not for over a month! Then, _then_ to find out that my wife, my _wife_ , has been arrested and charged with the most heinous of crimes based on a fabricated case."

Jean-Luc was not sure what to say to that. He decided to remain silent on the assumption that Q would continue.

Which he did. "Something is going on, Picard. Something big and it's targeting me. I don't know who's behind it since my only source has been what the men have heard in _their_ letters from home, the half-coherent scrawl from their barely literate wives and mothers. It's impossible to make out how this happened, much less who could have orchestrated it."

If the hand manipulating the puppet went unnoticed, Jean-Luc assumed it was only through some oversight. Beverly's letter clearly noted that Kyle Riker was behind Vash's persecution, but perhaps that aspect was less titillating to the majority of people in the county, thus not conveyed in their letters. It could be, he guessed, that more people were interested in seeing some hardship befall Q's wife than in who caused it to happen. Furthermore, most people probably believed in her guilt, rather than in some conspiracy to make her appear guilty.

"Do you have any ideas, Picard? Did _you_ hear anything from home?"

Jean-Luc's response was thoughtful, measured. "Q, if you believe that someone was behind your wife's arrest, that someone created evidence that pointed to her, that's a very serious charge. More to the point, accomplishing something like this would take planning, maneuverability, and authority, at the very least. Who do you think would have both the motive and the means to complete such a scheme?"

Q froze in his tracks. "No," he shook his head. "It couldn't be. He's not even there." Before Picard had mentioned motive, he now saw, he had been looking in the wrong direction, solely at someone who might have the means to lock up his wife. It had also occurred to him that Vash had plenty of her own enemies. But, once Picard laid out every aspect of the devious operation that had culminated in Vash's arrest, only one suspect floated to the top of the list.

Riker.

How had the senator—who Q knew had gone to Richmond to get noticed by Jefferson Davis—returned to Georgia and launched a grand charade that had culminated in his wife's imprisonment? Q had no idea how he had done it, but there was no question in his mind that Kyle was behind this monstrous personal attack.

"Come on, Picard. You're coming with me." The tall man swung an arm and swiped his hat off his desk.

Getting to his feet, Jean-Luc asked, "Where are we going?"

"We're going to talk to the colonel. You're going to help me persuade him to give us leave as soon as possible.

Jean-Luc donned his own hat, said, "Yes, sir," and followed him out of the tent.


	53. Chapter 53

Hello Readers - just out of time, a holiday story. Hopefully, it will not offend Christians or non-Christians. This chapter includes the most difficult-to-write thing I've ever done in my fanfic! (Tougher than the 'M' scenes!) Yes, I know it didn't come out exactly right, but I hope you can enjoy it. Wishing you much peace & positive energy. ~ Liz

* * *

A cold Christmas morning wind frosted the window panes and dusted the grasses throughout the small county. Fortunate families opened presents next to fireplaces and drank hot chocolate to celebrate the birth of a savior, whose kind ways and loving words seemed to be less heeded this season than others. After a tumultuous year that promised and threatened so much, uncertainty hovered over so many households.

Bells rang, announcing that this day was different from all others. Few people traveled the highways, but those who ventured out greeted one another more amiably, more purposefully than usual, as though not wanting to be excluded from the joy of the holiday that seemed to float through the air, within their grasp if they had the courage to reach up and touch it.

Gathering in the cozy, aging white wooden church, Marie sang carols with a lighter spirit than she had the year before. Her heart was filled with the happiness of having good friends, such as Beverly, seated on her left, and Kate and Deanna. Though still garbed in mourning black, she carried with her today only cheerful memories of her husband and son and felt their presence beside her, urging her to live a full life in their honor. As a serenity washed over her, Marie's thoughts drifted during the homily to her friend Dalen Quaice, for whom she was glad to care, and she offered a private prayer for his recovery.

On the other side of the aisle, Alynna sat with Norah Satie, both of them dressed comfortably warmly and comfortably fashionably. Always friends with the matriarch of the local dynasty, Alynna had cultivated her relationship with Norah over the last few months, while abandoning as tainted her former friend Vash, who had been languishing in police custody for several weeks. She reflected on her role in imprisoning and demoralizing the younger woman, whom she had helped destroy with no moral misgivings. If she felt any gratitude in the house of God, it was a gratefulness that she had backed the right horse in Kyle. And that she seemed to have Kyle right where she wanted him.

Behind the Saties' populated pews, Kyle sang loudly with a delight heartfelt though wholly unrelated to the festive occasion. He had isolated the wife of his adversary in a tiny, comfortless cell and watched as she deteriorated. Vash had lost weight, the shine in her hair and the smile on her face and was on the verge of losing hope. One of his well-placed men in the Confederate Army had kept Q away from the home front with repeated denials for leave for the regiment and—when the lack of communication from his wife alarmed him—for Q's urgent request for emergency personal leave. Thinking back on his campaign, Kyle appreciated Alynna's advice not to send Q a telegram posing as Vash. His partnership with Alynna had been a wise move and he congratulated himself on manipulating her.

Sitting next to her mother and Dr. Timicin, who had become much better acquainted over the last month and a half, Deanna was practically overcome with emotion, as she thought of her precious baby, whom she would carry for only one more month, and of her beloved husband, who wrote her frequently, but, alas, was not with her. She had so hoped he would be home for Christmas. Although she visually remembered their wedding day, memories of Will's touches, taste and scent were fading, despite her striving to retain them. While the rest of the congregation rose to sing, Deanna remained seated, closed her eyes and let the pleasant music calm her so that she could convey contentment and peacefulness, rather than sorrow, to her child.

Listening to the pastor and reflecting on the life of Jesus, Beverly had a revelation of the kind the clergy hope to inspire in their flocks. Change, she thought, the courage to change, after all was said and done, was an important aspect of what Jesus had brought to his people. Some of the people accepted it, while others did not. Conveniently connecting the scripture that was supposed to be her focus to her own life, which was where her thoughts actually dwelt, she reasoned that Jean-Luc _would_ be happy to learn of the baby because he had the courage to change. He had left behind his career at sea to assume the mantle of his brother's cotton business. He had abandoned his country in favor of the United States, then volunteered to defend the Confederate States of America, to protect her son. Despite not being a father, she had observed, he treated Wesley like a son, teaching and mentoring him, and feeling a pride—unexpressed but nevertheless visible to Beverly—in Wesley's accomplishments. She could tell that he was unused to sharing his living space and sharing himself, but he had worked hard to accommodate her and to let her in. The most solitary of men for his whole life, he had evolved into a loving, solicitous husband. Yes, she concluded, threading her fingers across her stomach, over her precious, tiny baby, Jean-Luc would be a good father.

* * *

In the newly constructed church in the new village on the Picard-Ro plantation, Dathon delivered a moving sermon about the ultimate triumph of the meek over the strong and raised his arms up to include their own cherished, if simple, house of worship and all the new homes beyond it as evidence that the rise of the downtrodden had begun. Acquiel nodded her head in agreement and occasionally joined the crowd's random, impassioned shouts of "amen," thanking the Lord for her nascent seamstress business. Ben clenched his hands before him, trying to find consolation in the Word, but feeling deeply unsettled.

In the back of the church, Worf kept guard at the door, never completely trusting that the white authorities would leave them alone. From time to time, he glanced at Alexander, proud that his son was learning to read and, according to his teacher, was doing very well. His teacher was an exotic looking woman named Miss Deanna and Worf had been terrified to feel a spark of attraction when he had met her. Even though Miss Deanna was very large with child, for a flicker of a moment, catching her eye, he had thought that she had felt it as well. As Dathon's voice rose to draw him back to the sermon, he banished such thoughts to the corner of his mind, alongside his complicity in Miss Ro's killings. He looked up to his pastor, hoping—not quite praying—that salvation could be his some day.

Packed tightly between Guinan and Sam's entire family, Geordi listened to the stirring speech and decided to make a change in his life. After spending the last month or so moping about Acquiel ending their relationship, and feeling useless because he was not working on any new inventions, Geordi perked up at the optimism in the sermon and resolved to cheer himself up. If the meek were on the verge of inheriting the Earth, that was pretty good news and more important than his own love life problems. From now on, he would wake up and feel good each day. He would look for some way he could contribute to the new world order that was coming. Even though he could not see and did not have a girlfriend, he knew that he had talents that he could share to help advance his people. All of a sudden, Sam, Jr. slid off his father's lap and accidentally bumped Geordi. As the startled boy apologized, Geordi merely laughed and patted his head.

* * *

At the Ro house, Silva directed the cooking of an enormous feast for anyone living on the plantation or in the village. Mr. Soong had stoked the fires in his newly designed fire pits and arranged place settings in the dining room and all the other main floor rooms that held makeshift tables and benches. He shyly approached Silva in the hallway as she looked over decorations being hung by some teens, with help from Sarjenka and the older O'Brien children.

"If that's all ma'am, I'd like to get going," he said.

Silva looked at him as though his head were about to fall off his shoulders. "Aren't you staying to eat dinner with us?"

"No ma'am. I thought I'd go and spend the rest of the day visiting my mother." Hat in hand and recently washed hair neatly slicked back, Mr. Soong seemed to be awaiting permission to leave.

Silva granted it. "Have a very merry Christmas, Mr. Soong."

"You, too, ma'am."

The brilliant inventor walked off and Silva scarcely had time to think about him. "Oh, Mr. Soong?" She recalled just in time.

"Yes?" He turned to face her.

"Don't forget to wish Miss Ro a merry Christmas."

Mr. Soong had forgotten. "Oh, ah, yes, ma'am, thank you." He wondered where he might find the mistress—or at least the owner, for Silva seemed to embody the first role—of the house and, as if reading his mind, Silva pointed in the direction of the late Mr. Ro's library.

"All right, children," Silva called to Sarjenka and the O'Briens. "You've done a very nice job," she said, admiring the greenery and ribbons they had helped to place along the staircase. "You let the older girls finish and run outside now and collect chestnuts for roasting later."

Sarjenka jumped out and down happily. "Can we use the basket I made?" She asked proudly.

"Yes, of course. Hurry along."

Worf and Geordi walked into the room, with Alexander turning around and joining Sarjenka in her race to the kitchen.

"Is church over?" Silva asked them.

"Yes," Worf answered. "It has been over for several minutes. We stopped at the Picard house. Guinan says that thirty people will be coming."

"Oh my goodness. I don't know where we're going to fit all these people."

To her surprise, her son laughed. "Don't worry, mom. We'll figure something out. We always do."

Silva looked at her son with a contempt for simplicity that morphed into a pride in his positive attitude. Watching Worf and him get to work moving chairs and benches to reconfigure the seating arrangements, she recognized that Geordi _did_ always figure out complex problems—usually much more important ones than their current task. Silva felt a tinge of pride.

Without thinking to knock on the closed library door, Mr. Soong turned the knob and opened it to find Miss Ro and Ben strangely moving away from each other.

"Mr. Soong!" Miss Ro spoke his name as though she were angry with him, although he could not fathom why she would be. She seemed to be panting somewhat, although Mr. Soong was fairly certain she had been in the house, and not running from somewhere, all morning. Ben, who had arrived from church not long ago, and could have conceivably run, also appeared to be angry and somewhat out of breath.

"Hello, Miss Ro," Mr. Soong said. "I am leaving to visit my mother and I wanted to wish you a merry Christmas."

"Oh." Ro seemed to gather some measure of composure. She breathed in and out, smoothing the front of her dress. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Soong." She looked at Ben pointedly.

"Yes," Ben said to the intruder, "Merry Christmas."

"To you as well." With a bow, Mr. Soong exited, thinking of renewing his relationship with his mother and devoting no further attention to the question of why Miss Ro and Ben had been running after church and before dinner on Christmas Day.

* * *

"I'm bored." As soon as he had said it, Wesley realized the potential of his comments to offend his present company. He looked up and saw Lt. Riker glaring at him with a raised eyebrow. "Uh, no disrespect, sir . . . sirs."

Jean-Luc barely concealed a smirk. "That's all right, Wesley. Indeed, a good part of war is boredom. Once we've seen action, you'll eventually come to understand that the boredom is the better part of war."

The captain was always saying things like that, Wesley thought. He shivered in the cold and silently cursed the tents that neither kept them cool in the summer nor warm in the winter.

"Now, now, gentlemen," Will said, uncorking yet another fat brown bottle of locally produced alcohol, "we came here to celebrate, not complain." He leered first at Wesley. "Or philosophize." Then at Jean-Luc.

"It is Christmas, after all," Jean-Luc tactfully responded. As far as he was concerned, there was no rank in his tent on this Christmas night away from home. More than anything, he would have loved to be sitting by the fireplace in his front parlor, next to Beverly, admiring his tree and watching her open a present from him, her face lighting up when she saw—there were so many things he wanted to give her. Jewelry, dresses, books, perfumes, trips abroad. He had, in fact, purchased none of these things and instead had composed a sonnet for her. Sitting with Will and Wes, he now questioned the adequacy of his gift. He had perhaps, he thought, been too preoccupied by Q's and his futile efforts to secure leave for the regiment in time for Christmas. Their unfeeling reception by a dyspeptic colonel reminded him of Ebenezer Scrooge's cold misanthropy. Even though Q had vowed to carry their demand up the chain of command, the men still found themselves miles from home on a day that should have been devoted to family. As he reflected, Jean-Luc did not notice that he had been happily alone for too many Christmases to count prior to this year.

Jean-Luc knew better than to ask where or how his first lieutenant had procured a bottle of spirits. His experience had taught him that there were some things a commanding officer did not need to know. The by now recognizable wide, brown bottle—called a jug, Will had told him—usually heralded an unpleasant tasting but potent drinking experience.

Several rounds into the nasty beverage, the men's drunken conversation turned to women. Fuzzily aware that the son of his wife was sitting across the table from him, Jean-Luc spoke only in generalities and deferred to Will, who was especially loquacious on the subject this evening. After humorously cataloguing several near conquests, Will began to discuss the specifics of his victories.

The graphic detail startled Jean-Luc. "Now, now, Will. Wesley is with us."

Neither older man appreciated the significantly stronger effects of the same amount of liquid poison on the much lighter Wesley.

"I'm not offended." Wesley sat up straighter, unconsciously lowering his voice to sound older.

"Maybe not offended, but you won't understand. You're not exactly experienced," Will fired back.

Defending his manliness, Wesley spoke before any sober, rational part of his mind could stop him. "I'm experienced."

"I'm not talking about holding hands in the schoolyard."

Wesley leaned over the table toward his taller verbal adversary, attempting to appear menacing, but merely achieving a comically stretched pose. "Neither am I."

Jean-Luc spit out the whiskey that had been making its way down his throat, while Will froze in shock, then burst out laughing. Jean-Luc realized that this was information he did not wish to have about his stepson.

Recovering, Will asked, "Who's the lucky lady?"

Wesley was indignant. "I would never tell. That wouldn't be polite."

"Aaah, I bet I can guess."

Wesley blanched. He had never thought that someone could guess her identity, but, if anyone could, he now realized, it was probably Will. Why had he even said anything?

"Let's see." Will stroked his beard as he contemplated. "What's her name . . . ? I know—Robin Lefler!"

"No," Wesley answered immediately.

"Who?" Jean-Luc asked.

"Her father is a traveling salesman," Will explained. "The family came to town—what was it, maybe a year ago?—but when her parents left, Miss Lefler stayed behind to become an apprentice dress maker."

Jean-Luc nodded, understanding why, given her profession, he had never heard the young woman's name before.

"Someone," Will continued, deciding not to share that his source was his father, who had gotten the information from Alynna, "saw you with her in town." He wiggled his finger at Wesley. "So, the two of you . . . ?"

"No, I swear. I swear upon my mother's life—" the mention of Beverly drew Jean-Luc's attention away from his glass—"that never happened between us. We just went for some walks and sat outside one Sunday after church. That's all."

"But, you like her?" Will pressed.

"I do, but I would never, ever make her do . . . ." Wesley felt hot under his collar.

"Hmm," Will hummed. "I'm not sure if I believe you." He did, actually, trust that Wesley was telling the truth. But, that left him with no obvious suspects. Employing his poker-bluff style, he tried to keep the young man uneasy while he tried to think of someone else.

Jean-Luc had tuned out the discussion to focus on his drinking and avoid hearing anything too embarrassing. He could not, however, turn off his sharp analytical mind, which, despite his desire for ignorance, quickly calculated who Wesley's paramour was most likely to be. Talks with Beverly, plus his own observation of the boy's—man's—work habits and schedule led him to conclude that there was only one woman with whom Wesley spent a great deal of time.

"How many times?" Will asked, fishing for leads.

"Not very many."

"Less than five?"

"Yes," Wesley admitted, by now extremely uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation. He sorely regretted bragging to put him on equal footing with the older men; all it had accomplished was to emphasize his immaturity.

Granted, Jean-Luc allowed, as the conversation about Miss Lefler had shown, he was not familiar with many of the local teenagers. But, if one considered someone who was not a teenager, perhaps someone who had played an influential role in Wesley's life, someone he admired and from whom he had learned . . . . He lowered his gaze. Staring into the cloudy amber liquid, he let the realization sink in. How did he feel about knowing this most personal piece of information? He was unsure.

"Is she one of the Satie grandchildren?"

"No!"

Someone who was unmarried and unafraid of social mores. Of course, Jean-Luc had never discussed sex with her—men and women who were not married to one another simply did not talk about such things. The more he considered the possibility, however, the more sense it made. He looked up at Wesley, the woman's identity unspoken, but showing in his face.

As soon as Wesley saw the look of comprehension on the captain's face, he knew that his stepfather had guessed the identity of his former occasional lover. Guilt flooded him and made him want to crawl under the table and hide. Would the captain say something to her? Would he tell Wesley's _mother?_ The consequences were unbearable to consider. Looking away from Jean-Luc's silent accusation, he saw that Will, thankfully, was drinking and had not seen it. He had to figure out how to get out of this tent before the captain said her name.

"I know!" Will slammed his empty glass on the table. "Kate Pulaski!"

The older officers laughed at Will's absurd joke, while Wesley sweated, but was able to exhale.

Jean-Luc refilled Will's glass. "I don't want to talk about women any more."

"No?" Will was incredulous.

"No, because I can't say anything about any woman or Wesley will beat me up."

"No, sir, I—"

"You're darn right," Will interrupted, "and I might beat you up, too. Don't forget, I'm Beverly's friend."

Jean-Luc downed his drink. "At any rate, we're married men now. No sense drudging up the past."

Will beamed. "I'm happy to talk about Deanna. My wife has the best figure in the county."

Jean-Luc poured himself another and shook his head. "Still can't talk," he said regretfully, with a nod toward Wesley.

"Well, Deanna . . . ."

Only half-listening, Jean-Luc's mind lingered on his new insight of the relationship between his stepson and his partner in crime. While he neither condemned nor admired their actions, he could not forget them. Possessing this knowledge of their trysts served him with notice that Wesley was more a man than a boy and reminded him that he really did not know very well the woman posing as his wife.

"How did you know?" Wesley was asking Will. "I mean, how did you know that she was the right one for you?"

Will simply smiled and took a long swig of his drink, thirsty after his lengthy story telling. "Now that," he said, "is a question the captain can answer."

Jean-Luc was just drunk enough and missing Beverly enough to attempt a response. He took a few moments to gather his thoughts, clearly emotional, his chest moving with heavy breaths, then spoke slowly, thoughtfully. "I felt attracted to, drawn to, your mother the first moment I saw her and I'm sure that was mostly—maybe entirely—a physical reaction at first. But—and here's the important part, Wesley—" Jean-Luc leaned precipitously toward Wesley's chair and patted his stepson's knee rather firmly for emphasis, "very soon after meeting her, I saw in her . . . understanding. A like mind, a kindred spirit. Someone who shares my values and interests. Someone who can make me laugh, at myself if necessary. Someone I could trust implicitly. Someone who showed me, through her actions more than her words, that she loves me as much as I love her. That's what's important. That's what we all hope to find in a woman."

Wesley soaked up every word, perceiving the earnestness and emotion behind them. Although he had often heard his mother talk of Jean-Luc, this was the first time, looking into the captain's intense eyes, obviously grieving Beverly's absence, that he comprehended the depth of the older man's feelings for his mother. Wise advice about women, as well. Looking into the captain's penetrating eyes, Wesley somehow understood that Jean-Luc would keep his secret. He wanted to thank him, but had no idea what to say or how to convey his gratitude nonverbally.

Will defused the sobriety. "On the other hand," he gestured, "Yankee women . . . ."

Jean-Luc and Wesley looked at each other and laughed.

* * *

Although the letter had been sent in early December, it did not arrive until just after Christmas. Beverly had had a depressing morning. After an especially strong bout of morning sickness, she checked on Dalen, but was disheartened by the results of her exam. Weeks of feeding him the miracle plant had not made him responsive or able to move any part of his body and Beverly knew that the longer he stayed immobile, the more likely it was that the condition would become permanent.

If the thought of the man who was her father in all but name lying still and uncommunicative as he wasted away was not enough to dampen her spirits, it seemed as though everything happening around her was conspiring to do so. Just into her ninth month of pregnancy Deanna's belly was very large and she was unable to climb the stairs to teach the children, thus the lessons were moved downstairs to the back parlor. From her study, Marie could hear the children and she found it distracting. Also, lately Deanna had been complaining of—or, mentioning, because Deanna did not really _complain_ about anything—headaches, shortness of breath and some sensitivity to light. Beverly's experience had taught her that these symptoms foreshadowed complications. At the end of the day, she planned to tell Deanna to stop teaching and stay at her mother's house. She would check on Deanna every day until her condition improved or she was forced to deliver the baby.

Geordi had become more distant and thoughtful, and less helpful around the house, suddenly spending more time with Mr. Soong or sitting in the rocking chair by the small stove in the kitchen, as if in contemplation. Ben and Worf were still at odds with one another, and the latter spent more time at the house than he ever had before, often spotted with his son, Alexander. Silva seemed to be angry about something. On the few occasions when Beverly saw Miss Ro, the younger woman seemed either on edge or agitated. Beverly intentionally avoided any knowledge of the Underground Railroad so that she could claim innocence and disavow knowing if she were ever interrogated, but she could not help but sense the tension among the conductors.

Beverly also began to worry about what would happen when the weather warmed and the serious business of planting and harvesting required full-scale cooperation and management. Would this coming summer be worse than the last? Dathon had become the de facto minister, which occupied a great deal of his time. In the middle of their busiest season, she would be giving birth! Who would make sure that everything ran properly?

Beyond the walls of the sprawling Picard-Ro property, the rest of the county was in a subtle turmoil. Vash had been in jail for weeks for smuggling slaves, which confounded the actual smugglers, who had tried to frame Alynna. All of her friends were confused—do they believe her protestations of innocence or trust that law enforcement, in the form of the venerated Senator Riker himself, has identified the culprit? Subsequent to her arrest, Kyle had implicated Vash and her ring of criminals in numerous other wrong doings, including a double murder in South Carolina. Families missed their fathers and husbands, who were not granted leave to come home. And no one had heard from Q in nearly two months. Everywhere one went, there was a tension, as though Vash's deception hinted at other, more deeply hid falsehoods. As though neighbor could no longer trust neighbor. As though something uncontrollable were simmering just beneath the surface of polite society.

Passing by a window in the front parlor, Beverly saw Molly and Miles, Jr. running around the yard with the youngest of Sam's children. They laughed and sang, so carefree. Beverly found herself smiling at them. In the midst of all the dangers and complications created by the adults, youngsters could still thrive. Her son Wesley had been like them once, and in about six months, she would have another child who could run and play outdoors unaware of the stresses plaguing the adults around them.

She was standing by the window when Guinan handed her the letter from Jean-Luc. Rather than read it downstairs in his study, which she had appropriated as her office months ago, she took the envelope upstairs to their bedroom. Sighing with exhaustion, which was more commonplace for her these days than she remembered from her first pregnancy, Beverly reclined on the flowered divan and pulled her nana's soft throw over her. She smiled at the envelope and carefully slit it open with Jean-Luc's own gold letter opener.

 _My dearest wife,_

 _It grieves me so, to be away from you at Christmas. Alone, missing your kiss and your laugh. Pretending I can see your face. Imagining your touch. How I would love to celebrate this holiest of days with you, exchanging gifts by the fire, as we drink egg nog and eat sweets._

 _In my current position, I am unable to buy you the kind of beautiful, fancy things you deserve. My ability to make you something with my own hands is somewhat limited. However, I have brazenly tried to create something for you, for us. I hope you will accept this meager gift in the spirit of love in which it is intended and not be too critical of my efforts._

 _Our Song_

 _Playful blue eyes reflect azure warm sky_

 _Your face royal, launch a thousand bold ships_

 _so wild, your hair on fire, set free to fly_

 _Smart smile teasing from your delicious lips_

 _Loyal old man, navy, floating adrift_

 _Attached to none, under the stars above_

 _No idea the life of joy he'd missed_

 _Relinquished I the sea to find your love_

 _My wish, to give you what you gave to me_

 _To lie with you, moonlight, sunrise, bird song_

 _Walk by your side, the world is ours to see_

 _We share, cherish, nourish our love, so strong_

 _All sorrow, solitude, suff'ring now past,_

 _In each other, we find ourselves at last_

 _Thinking of you, as always. You hold my heart,_ _ma chérie, as you will forever._

 _With all my love,_

 _Your devoted husband_

Beverly read the sonnet over and over, curling her body around the treasured piece of Jean-Luc's ivory stationery, delicately running her fingers along the elegantly inked verses. The touching words, and her husband's shyness and modesty about his literary skills warmed her heart and reminded her how she much she loved this wonderful, sensitive man. Tears of joys traced down her cheeks to the curves of her smile. Her happiness lasted until holding Jean-Luc's words no longer felt like an adequate substitute for holding him. The stream of tears grew to a river and she cried out of sheer loneliness and physical want.


	54. Chapter 54

December 31, 1861

Edward's long-held philosophy was to avoid white people as much as possible. To that end, he tried to always stay on Senator Riker's good side. Once he had gotten to know the man, that had become fairly easy. He always did as he was told, he never questioned an order and he made himself scarce when the senator was in a bad mood. Thus, Edward was never flogged or struck and rarely even yelled at. The senator's new daughter-in-law was perhaps the kindest white person Edward had ever known—nicer even than the universally adored Miss Betty, in his view—and Edward had no objection to her whatsoever. Women tended to be easier to get along with, in general, but there were two women who threatened his peace and quiet and bodily sanctity on this New Year's Eve.

The first was the highly unpredictable Lwaxanna Troi. Her changeable manner and impulsive decisions seemed, to Edward, charged with the potential for violence, although he could not imagine her personally committing such acts. He found it impossible to calculate how to remain in her good graces and the resulting uncertainty bothered him. There had been a tornado of activity swirling around the Troi house in preparation for the evening's New Year's Eve party and Edward had happily exited the fray—house servants scrambling, Mrs. Troi shrieking, field hands fumbling around outside—to drive Mrs. Riker to the Picard house. Mrs. Troi had issued an order for him to return Deanna to the Troi residence to rest after her visit with Mrs. Crusher and he intended to comply in order to stay out of Mrs. Troi's field of vision on the stressful day.

Therein lay the conflict with the second woman who had threatened him: Mrs. Crusher. After noon, after not being summoned to drive Mrs. Riker back to her mother's house, and being unable to find Guinan, Edward walked into the Picard kitchen looking for Geordi and found the tall midwife standing at a table, chopping up a variety of herbs and concentrating on the task. He had seen Beverly Crusher at a distance before, but now that he stood only feet away from her, he was mesmerized by the color of her hair, as orange as the flames in the fireplace. How could people get such color hair, he wondered.

Beverly had heard someone come in, but had not bothered to stop cutting up the herbs she needed. When the newcomer stopped but did not speak, she said without looking up, "Can I help you with something?"

Edward colored. "Uh, 'scuse me, ma'am? I'm here to pick up Mrs. Riker and drive her back to her mother's house."

"Mrs. Riker is not going back to her mother's house today. She's going to have her baby." Chop, chop.

Thanks to Lwaxanna's over-sharing of pregnancy details with everyone, Edward knew that Mrs. Riker was not due to have her baby until later in January. Childbirth was not a subject Edward cared to discuss at all, much less with an unfamiliar white woman. "Um, ma'am?" He asked nervously. "Mrs. Troi is expecting her."

Beverly continued to work with the large knife. "What Mrs. Troi expects doesn't matter right now."

It mattered to Edward. "Ma'am? Can we just take Mrs. Riker on home to her mother's place and then do what all for the baby over there?"

The unassuming man had inadvertently reminded Beverly of the stress of the situation—Deanna's body exhibiting signs of ill health that threatened both the baby and her. After monitoring her for days and noting a worsening of her condition, Beverly had decided she had to induce labor to save both patients. Already today, she had pressed a reluctant Worf into carrying Deanna upstairs and ordered Guinan, Geordi and Mr. Soong to prepare for the birth, start preparing a healthy supper and retrieve more herbs from her stores in Dr. Timicin's lab. Next, she had settled Deanna comfortably into the first guest bedroom and calmly explained how drinking the oddly flavored solution she would mix would, hopefully within twelve hours, coax her baby to be born. She had not told anyone, and had tried not to think about, the fact that the solution did not always work and mothers and babies in these situations did not always survive.

Shuffling in the middle of the kitchen, Edward became the lightning rod for all her worry and anger and she raised her voice to let him know she was serious. "Mrs. Riker is not going anywhere today. You can stay here or go somewhere else, but you are _not_ taking my patient with you."

"But Mrs. Troi said—"

Beverly turned away from the table, gripping the knife tightly in her hand. Gesticulating to emphasize her point, she did not realize that she had raised and was waving the weapon as she threatened the man. "I don't care if Jefferson Davis himself is looking for her. Mrs. Riker's life is in danger and so is that of her child. I'm not going to let anyone take her out of this house. Is that understood?"

Edward began to slowly back away, nodding his head theatrically to make sure that she saw him agreeing. "Ye-yes, ma'am."

"Good. Now, leave me alone and let me finish my work."

"Yes, ma'am."

Edward was happy to oblige and he backed out the door as quickly as he could without taking his eyes off the knife. Outside, he let out the breath he had been holding and headed back toward the stable, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that she was not following him. Once in the safety of his world, he yanked his handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiped the sweat off his brow. He looked about for his counterpart, but did not find anyone manning the stable. Things had changed so drastically since Captain Picard had married Miss Ro, he thought. Who knows how they run things these days? No one tending the animals, white woman in the kitchen, what was this world coming to?

When he strolled outside the other side of the stable, he immediately encountered a familiar, if not welcoming, face. "Oh, hello, Silva," he said, still distressed.

Carrying a basket of carrots for the horses, Silva stopped to regard her husband and frowned. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Edward. What's the matter with you?"

Although her tone conveyed her usual harshness, something in the air—the topsy-turvy nature of seemingly everything on this plantation? the winds of the distant war? the coming of the new year?—moved Edward to make a suggestion he had not dared to make for years. Whatever else she had done, Mrs. Crusher had cleared his afternoon schedule. "I'll tell you all about it, but first you tell me something."

"Oh?" Silva set down her basket and crossed her arms.

"Is it true what they say? Do you have your own bedroom up there, in Miss Ro's house?" He swept his head toward the other mansion on the dual property with a hint of a smile on his face.

Silva was flabbergasted. It had been so long since Edward and she—no, he couldn't possibly be asking that, could he? She watched him neatly fold his handkerchief and tuck it into the pocket of his jacket. Edward was not a tall man, but he was handsome and, before he had been sold to Kyle Riker, at least, he had been kind and good-humored. Maybe he wasn't the strongest man she knew, physically or emotionally, but he was a good man. He was her husband.

Edward smiled in earnest, despite the fact that she had done nothing to encourage his optimism for fifteen years.

Silva picked up the basket of carrots and set it down just inside the stable, which brought her quite close to Edward. "Come on, you old fool," she said, then started off ahead of him. "I'll show you my bedroom . . . ."

Edward followed her eagerly. He would be so joyfully preoccupied for the remainder of the afternoon that he would rush back to drive Senator Riker to the party, cover his absence by saying he had been caring for the horses, and completely forget to tell anyone what he had heard about Mrs. Riker.

* * *

"I say, 'Good riddance to 1861!' It was a terrible year for everyone with this horrible war starting." Lwaxanna expressed her sentiments to her party guests, unmindful of how unpatriotic she sounded. "It's all been terribly inconvenient, hasn't it?"

"I believe we can all bear a little inconvenience, Mrs. Troi," Dr. Timicin, at her right elbow, stuffily pronounced, "if it's all for the good of the Confederacy."

"Here, here," Kyle chimed in, raising his glass. "With apologies to Lwaxanna and the ladies who've had to do without their menfolk, I propose a toast to the Confederacy."

Everyone drank a sip of their beverage of choice—wine, whiskey, champagne, apple cider. The Troi house had been decorated from floorboards to crown moulding with colorful streamers, beads and paper cut outs, per Lwaxanna's specifications, to make the very walls of her home happy and cheerful.

Lwaxanna wanted to steer the conversation away from politics. Once the men got started on that, they would become agitated and the women would become bored. She needed everyone to stay jovial for the sake of her party and for what many of them hoped might happen after the party. They still had three hours until it was time to festively ring in the new year.

As if reading her mind, or at the very least, her facial expression, Alynna asked, "How is your daughter doing?"

Lwaxanna beamed, thrilled to be able to talk about her second favorite subject. "Deanna is doing just splendidly. I wanted her to join us but she was just feeling so tired today, so she's upstairs resting. I'd love for her to come down at midnight. I'll have Homn check on her."

"I'm glad she's well." Alynna had no interest in discussing pregnancy or infants, but no one else stepped in to pick up the conversation. "When is her baby due?" She noticed that Kyle Riker, now seated in a chair across from Judge Satie and conversing with the elder statesman, was nevertheless looking at her.

"In a month's time."

Norah Satie said, "My oldest nephew was a Christmas baby."

"Oh, how wonderful to be born on Christmas," Kate commented, trying to catch Kyle's attention.

"Yes, we consider it very special. Of course, he's a special boy, young Aaron."

"Oh?" asked Maria Huxley Maxwell, Captain Ben Maxwell's wife.

Norah launched into a series of stories about the already obvious talents of young Aaron Satie III. Drifting to the rest of her guests, Lwaxanna noted, pleased, that Marie and the Barclays—the elder Barclays she supposed they would be called, now that young Reg had married—were entertaining one another. Hitching her arm through Dr. Timicin's, she re-directed him away from Kyle and Judge Satie and sat him down next to her on a sofa. Just as she was about to pay him an exaggerated compliment, a commotion in the hall drew looks from guests in every grouping.

"Hello, everyone. Uh, happy new year." Sheriff Q, dressed in a bland gray suit, clapped his hands together and stood awkwardly just inside the room.

It was Lwaxanna's worst nightmare—that the sheriff would have the poor taste to not realize that her invitation had been obligatory, not sincere. The evening had proceeded so smoothly, with everyone in his or her perfect place, chatting, eating and imbibing. With the unexpected appearance of the man who had arrested and imprisoned one of their neighbors and dear friends, the merriment halted abruptly. A conversation vacuum opened up.

Marie was the first to recover, with a warm smile. "Happy new year, sheriff. Won't you join us?"

Sheriff Q smiled and, with a nod at Lwaxanna, crossed over to Marie and the Barclays. After a tense heartbeat, the small talk resumed. A round of fresh drinks circulated.

Since Sheriff Q had first gravitated toward Marie, Lwaxanna's nerves were prematurely calmed. Pretending to listen to Dr. Timicin, out of the corner of her eye, she watched the Frenchwoman—the epitome of delicate manners—ease the less socially graceful lawman into the various conversations. She thought catastrophe had been averted, but just after recitations of Christmas gifts and cold weather accommodations, she heard Mr. Barclay interject the non-sequitur she had been dreading all evening.

"Say, that was an awful business with Mrs. DeLancie, wasn't it?"

Before Lwaxanna could maneuver herself close enough to change the subject, she was out-maneuvered by another calculated eavesdropper.

"I think it is utterly disgraceful," Norah Satie pronounced loudly. "That a woman who should be a pillar of our society would bite the hand that feeds her."

"Bite the—" Mr. Barclay tried to ask.

"Her criminal activities undermine our very way of life and the entire economy that supports it. Not to mention the danger she puts us all in by releasing mentally aberrant Negroes out into the world."

"Oh, my goodness," Mrs. Barclay exclaimed.

"I hadn't really thought about the dangers to us," Kate said.

"Well, you certainly should," Norah emphasized. "Any one of those big black men could sneak up on you and—"

"Now, now, Norah." Kyle seized control by confidently striding into the center of the crowd and lightly patting the air just above her arm. "There's no need to get the womenfolk all riled up. We have Vash DeLancie all locked up in the county jail. She won't be letting any more slaves run free in our county."

Despite standing inches shorter than the senator, Norah looked down at him skeptically.

"What a relief!" Lwaxanna exclaimed. "I'm so glad we don't have to fret about that and we can talk about more pleasant things."

"Yes," Marie readily agreed. "The other day, some of us were talking about holding a charity ball, like they have done in Atlanta, to support the war effort."

"That's a wonderful idea, Marie," Lwaxanna affirmed. "Why don't we—"

"Before we leave the topic," Norah insisted, "I just want to make sure that _both_ DeLancies are sufficiently and severely punished for the full extent of their crimes."

"Believe me, Miss Satie, they will be," Kyle boomed. "We will bring the full force of the law to bear against them both."

"Including, I hope, taking their property."

"Yes, ma'am!" Various gasps of surprise greeted Kyle's announcement. "The legal wheels are in motion to seize the land upon which the criminals operated their heinous smuggling ring."

"Good!" Kate gave Kyle an admiring look.

"How can you take—" Mr. Barclay tried to ask.

"Why, did you know, we discovered that no fewer than _five_ slaves were discovered missing from the DeLancies' land?"

Shocked faces and mutterings.

"Unfortunately, that's not all." Having let others begin the attack, Alynna chose her moment to jump in. "I found out that two of my slaves were missing as well."

"No!"

"Impossible."

"How?"

"You should all check on your overseers to make sure none of your slaves is missing," Alynna advised.

"I would love to host a charity ball." Lwaxanna clapped her hands together at the thought. "I certainly have the space and—"

"I agree," Norah continued. "If any of you is not keeping a close enough watch on your overseers and your slaves," she looked pointedly at Lwaxanna, "the DeLancies could have stolen your property right out from under you."

If anyone had asked her before this moment, Marie would have answered that she did not have a deceptive bone in her body. Indeed, in the company of the vultures in which she found herself, she knew she was an unpracticed novice. Nevertheless, for the first time in her life a strategic deception had occurred to her and she found that she could not shake it. Even worse, she felt compelled to act on it.

While Lwaxanna recovered from the sting of Norah's accusation, Marie spoke up. "Actually . . . ," she paused until everyone looked at her, "I was embarrassed to say anything, but my overseer Mr. Soong told me we're missing three slaves ourselves."

Norah's eyes widened. "You should have said something as soon as you learned of the theft."

"Yes, you certainly should have, Madame Picard." Kyle took up the thread, pleased to see his convoluted vendetta expanding in an unanticipated way. "In fact, you will need to swear out a criminal complaint with the sheriff, my dear. You have been the victim of a most serious crime." His head swept to allow a panoramic view of his neighbors. "Anyone else here who knows his, or her, property has been stolen also needs to file a criminal complaint. Don't be shy about it, women. You can go to the sheriff together, if you like."

"Well, the sheriff's right here," Kate suggested. "Why don't you do it now?"

Both Lwaxanna and Marie protested, but another voice, unused to speaking loudly, suddenly entered the fray. Petite Maria Huxley Maxwell blurted out, "We lost a slave. A young man. My overseer takes a roll call of the field hands every morning except Sunday. One Monday morning about a month ago, this one slave wasn't there. We searched everywhere, but it was like he had vanished."

"Why didn't you say something?" Norah pressed, as Kyle and Alynna caught each other's eyes, happy to allow their plan to blossom with the nurturing of others.

"I wanted my husband to handle it," Maria answered. Raised in a wealthy family in which women were never involved with business affairs, she could not conceive of doing anything in any way connected to the running of her husband's plantation. "But the men never got any leave."

"Yes, peculiar that," Mr. Barclay contributed. "I wonder if Q had something to do with that. Maybe it's part of their scheme to keep the men of the county away while they plunder our property."

"Lwaxanna," Norah commanded, "we'll need to use your writing desk. Let's everyone take a turn writing out a complaint." The group moved toward Lwaxanna's parlor.

"But," Lwaxanna pleaded, "it's New Year's Eve, for heaven's sake. Can't we enjoy this evening and do these complaint things tomorrow?"

"The wheels of justice must always keep turning," Norah pronounced. "I fear that Q's interference has stopped them for too long, but we will set them spinning again, right now."

"Here, here," Mr. Barclay said, impressed with her oratory.

"My," Alynna commented, equally impressed.

The more passionate of the partygoers descended on the ornate writing desk and immediately set up paper and pen. Each complainant benefitted from the advice of the small crowd in drafting the legal documents that would add to the charges against the thoroughly discredited Vash. Sheriff Q stood on the fringes of the group, conflicted about the development that would raise his profile in law enforcement circles at the expense of his sister-in-law. Marie gave Lwaxanna an apologetic look as she joined them.

"This is terribly exciting," Dr. Timicin gushed to Lwaxanna, as they watched the wheels of justice speed up.

"Yes, terrible," Lwaxanna muttered.

In the main parlor, forgotten by the enthusiastic mob, sat retired Judge Aaron Satie, who once tended the wheels of justice in the county himself, with compassion and the wisdom of experience. Hard of hearing and possessed of a more profound sense of peace with the world than most people, Judge Satie had observed the younger people with curiosity, but only limited interest in their preoccupations, most of which he deemed trifle. When they abruptly left the room, he returned his gaze to the fire, by which he comfortably sat.

Judge Satie ruminated on the fleeting nature of both man and fire. How they both burned, slowly at first, then brightly blazed until they gradually shrank to embers before being extinguished. Although they change the wood, or the world, when they burn, bringing destruction, ultimately, their reach is limited by their short lives. Eventually, as nature and the years go on, their impact is forgotten, obscured by the new growth and new life.

This being the wisdom of the universe, Judge Satie sipped some brandy and rested, perfectly content and unconcerned about whatever had agitated the young people. Sighing, he leaned his head back against the plush cushions of the chair and closed his eyes.

* * *

Miles away, on New Year's Eve, 1861, Ro, Worf and Mr. Soong drove Ro's wagon through the winter chill of a dark, cloudy night. In the back, seven recently liberated people from Alabama lay as still as corpses. Bags of flour and feed kept them warm and concealed. With everyone who might pose a threat to them at Lwaxanna's party, they had embarked on their current mission with impunity hours ago. Now, however, behind schedule and cold, they had begun to worry about reaching the safety of the tunnel.

Ro and Worf heard the sound long before they could have seen anything. A regiment of men, including officers on horseback and supply wagons, simply could not move quietly through the countryside. With the clopping of hooves and the shuffling of tired men's dusty boots, what Ro thought would be the perfect night to sneak people through the county suddenly became the worst night to do so. They stopped the buckboard immediately.

"What is that?" Worf asked, blowing out the lantern.

"The army."

"What? What are they doing here?"

"I don't know. Maybe they're home for the holiday." Her eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"As soon as they come over that hill, they will see us."

"We'll have to think fast," Ro said, her hand on her shotgun.

* * *

The revelers all seemed to be enjoying themselves, even if the reason for the pleasure was not what Lwaxanna had anticipated. Sheriff Q was the center of attention, sitting with the finished complaints on his lap, telling stories about the misery that Vash was enduring, to everyone's apparent delight. However morbid and inappropriate she found the topic, they all appeared riveted by their former friend's suffering. The lone exception was Marie, who had taken refuge across from Judge Satie, by the fireplace.

Lwaxanna wandered around, sampling the finger foods and sipping champagne. All of a sudden, she felt something stab her in the stomach. She clutched her dress and looked down, but of course nothing was there. It was not something physical, she realized.

"Deanna?" She whispered.

No one noticed her leave the festivities. Homn accompanied her upstairs, where they found Deanna's room empty. Panicked, Lwaxanna hurried downstairs and, for a reason she could not explain, once she reached the main hall, she flew out the door without her wrap. By the time Homn had caught up with her on the dark driveway, on the way to the stable, she had found Edward with the carriage and was grilling him about her daughter's disappearance.

After several tense seconds and to Edward's great relief, she did not seem angry after he told her the whole story of Mrs. Crusher's intractability and the impending arrival of her grandchild. Never known for remaining calm, suddenly Lwaxanna was the model of organized action. Keeping her hand on the carriage, as though she were holding it in place, she turned to her most trusted servant.

"Homn, pack up my bags and Deanna's. I'm going over to the Picards. Please explain to my guests. If they ever stop talking and let you get a word in edgewise."

With that, she spritely climbed into the carriage on her own. "Edward, take me over to the Picard house immediately. My daughter needs me."


	55. Chapter 55

Anticipating his reunion with Beverly distracted Jean-Luc so much that he lost track of where the regiment was. Rather than the narrowing road before him, his eyes saw Beverly on their wedding day. He saw her walking into his parlor in her blue gown. He heard her say "I do," to become his wife. He saw her wearing the sensual silk dressing gown. He felt her warm lips on his as they made love. He felt her grabbing him, gripping him, licking and sucking him—

Beside him, Will Riker interrupted his reverie. "Looks like we might have a problem."

Jean-Luc turned to his trusted lieutenant and Will nodded toward the road ahead, where a light was visible on what appeared to be a wagon. But, who would be out in a wagon on a cold New Year's Eve on a back county road? Jean-Luc could think of only one person.

Riding in front of the group, Q recognized her first and loudly announced her presence to his men. "Why, I believe that's Mrs. Picard out there in the middle of the night! _Whatever_ could she be doing out here at this hour?"

"Perhaps she's in need of help," Will offered neutrally. As if riding to her aid, Jean-Luc and he kicked their horses to catch up to Q.

The three men, followed by the rest of the officers and, farther back, the soldiers on foot, cantered past the dense woods that lined the road.

With a triumphant grin, Q—vividly remembering the last time he had encountered her buckboard in the dead of night—rode alongside Ro, who sat perfectly still, the reins in her hands, blocking the regiment's path. Here, only yards away from him, he was certain, lay evidence that would prove that Laren Ro Picard, not Vash, was the slave smuggler.

"Mrs. Picard," he said, "what a surprise."

"I could say the same to you, too, Major," Ro retorted.

"What in the universe could bring you out driving in the dark on a cold New Year's Eve?"

"Well, I had gone into town to purchase some supplies and stopped for dinner and I'm afraid I got a rather late start back."

Jean-Luc felt a lump form in his throat. Her story sounded preposterous even to him.

"Good thing we've found you so that we can help you home in the dark." Will tried to ride past Q, but the latter turned his horse sideways and blocked him.

Thinking quickly, Jean-Luc rode around the two of them until he was abreast of the wagon. "My darling wife, how wonderful to see you again after so long!" He spoke loudly enough for the men behind to hear him and he hoped he conveyed the appropriate excitement at seeing the woman who was supposed to be his wife. He held out an arm to embrace Ro.

Catching on, Ro slid toward Jean-Luc and leaned in for a hug. Instead, Jean-Luc grabbed her, twisted her body away from Q and Will, laying her across his lap, and bent to kiss her.

"Are you carrying what I think you are in back?" He whispered.

"No, we're safe."

Will whistled suggestively at what appeared to be a rather protracted kiss.

Some of the men began to chuckle.

"Let's hurry home, men, to see our own wives!" Will's distraction worked for at least some of the soldiers, who broke ranks and headed toward the wagon. Will moved his horse aside to let them pass.

But Q was not deterred. Taking advantage of Ro's position on the other side of the wagon—just righting herself after Jean-Luc's embrace—Q moved to the tarp on the back of the wagon and ripped it back to reveal . . .

. . . a wagonload of supplies and Mr. Soong, cradling a jug and appearing very inebriated.

"Are we home? That was hic that was fasht," Mr. Soong slurred.

"Q!" Ro shouted as she stood and reached for the tarp. Grabbing the thick covering from his hands, she made as if to re-cover Mr. Soong, but thought better of it. "Are you pleased with yourself?" She said to a very shocked Q. "You've exposed a good man's secret and jeopardized his career and his reputation."

For once, Q seemed not to know what to say.

Empowered, Ro continued, speaking to the men of the company. "I hope I can count on you all to be discreet. I'm sure some of you took a few drinks while you were off at war. How would you feel if your story was talked about all over the county? How would you feel?"

Several men lowered their heads. Beside the wagon, Jean-Luc held his head up proudly.

To re-assert his authority over the men and the situation, Q loudly addressed them. "This is as good a place as any to break up, men. You know when to meet up and where. Everyone, enjoy your leave. You're welcome. Happy new year!" To punctuate his pronouncement, he fired his revolver into the air and, at that sign, the men hooted, hollered and scattered.

* * *

Her loud screams echoed in the chilly halls of the great house as she bore down and pushed, the movement forcing her head down into her sweat-soaked pillow. Until, finally, she strained her body past what she had thought were its limits. "Aaaaaaaaaaah!"

"It's all right. I've got the baby. Relax." The calming presence in the room, Beverly gently guided the small body out of the birth canal and onto a warm towel provided by Guinan. She expertly cut and tied the umbilical cord, checking the baby's respiration, color, pulse and muscle movement. The baby was definitely small—between five and six pounds, Beverly guessed—but apparently healthy. Guinan softly wiped the baby down with another warm cloth, per Beverly's instructions. A small cry told Deanna and Lwaxanna—both panting and nervous—that the baby was alive. The two women tightly clasped each other's hands.

Tears on her face and still worried about her patient, Beverly tended to Deanna, while Guinan wrapped the baby up in a blanket and handed the bundle to Lwaxanna, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Congratulations, it's a healthy boy." Guinan's closed-mouth smile stretched from ear to ear.

Lwaxanna was quite beside herself. "Oh, Deanna." She showed the baby to her daughter, who, despite her exertions, sat up in bed, causing Beverly to lean forward. "He's beautiful," the new grandmother cooed.

Guinan moved around to the other side of the bed to arrange pillows behind Deanna. The new mother held her baby for the first time with eyes round in wonder. The tiny pink infant's face did not obviously resemble either Will or her, but his eyes opened enough to show his father's blue irises. A thin patch of black hair covered most of his tiny head.

"Oh . . . ," was all Deanna could say as she beheld him.

"Guinan," Beverly said without looking up, "please give Deanna some water. Call down to see if the dinner is ready." She squeezed Deanna's leg behind her knee to feel her pulse. She had to make sure that Deanna's body was recovering properly. She would not relax until she was sure that she was out of danger.

Deanna sighed. "I just wish Will could be here to see his son." She could not take her eyes off the baby. Her heart pounded as she thought of how her life had just changed. She drank some water in the glass Guinan held for her and realized how thirsty she was. Guinan gave her more. "He's so beautiful, isn't he, mother?"

Lwaxanna slid closer, tears glistening in her eyes, and wrapped her arm around Deanna's shoulders. "Just like his mother."

Guinan held a water glass for Beverly and wiped the sweat off her forehead. Walking around the midwife, she lit a candle from the light fixture on the wall and quietly stepped out of the room to get the dinner that all of them needed.

* * *

Jean-Luc, Ro and Wesley burst through the front door, startling Guinan, on the stairs, for the first time in many years. As she quickly descended, they stopped speaking and looked up at her.

"Captain? Is that you?" Guinan asked holding the candle up to light his face.

He nodded and spoke firmly in a lowered voice as she came alongside them. "Yes, we were finally granted leave. The entire regiment is on the main road heading to their homes and Worf is hiding in the woods with . . . ," he turned a stern gaze on Miss Ro, "some passengers. We need to get them to the tunnel safely. Whose carriage is out front?"

"Senator Riker's. The carriage brought Mrs. Troi. Mrs. Riker just had her baby." Guinan held the candle up to the bedroom at the top of the stairs, from which a light shone.

 _Beverly will be up there,_ Jean-Luc thought looking up at the doorway wistfully.

"Is anyone else here? Anyone else on the way?" Ro asked urgently.

Guinan shook her head. "Most people are at Mrs. Troi's house. She was having a party."

"Then we can go help Worf," Ro concluded.

"No." Jean-Luc returned his attention to the two women before him. "We would have no excuse for being out in the woods in the middle of the night. We couldn't risk discovery."

"Guinan just said that everyone is at the Trois' house."

"She said that _most_ people are there. And they'll probably start leaving soon since it's after midnight and their hostess has been called away. There'll be traffic on the roads." His authoritative tone left no room for discussion. Guinan noticed that Ro, rather than continuing to argue, as she typically did, immediately conceded.

"Then what do we do?" Ro asked.

Jean-Luc considered the two women who had masterminded and managed the operation together for years, yet appeared to be near total opposites in temperament and tactics. "We can't send Mr. Soong out to get them, because he's supposedly too drunk to sit up." He looked at Wesley.

"I'll go," the young man quickly volunteered.

Jean-Luc was loathe to risk his stepson, who had already been arrested once.

As if reading Jean-Luc's mind, Wesley stood up straighter and said, "I'll be all right." He shook his head. "We'll go through the woods. We hardly even have to be on the road."

Jean-Luc stared at Wesley as he considered his options. Eventually, he nodded. "All right, but I don't want you to go alone." He looked at Ro and Guinan. "Is there anyone else we can trust who could go out and search for them? Anyone else who was part of the railroad?"

"Geordi," Guinan suggested.

"Geordi?" Ro scoffed. "The blind man?"

"He has excellent hearing."

Jean-Luc shook his head. "No, too risky."

"Ben could go." Guinan sounded sure of the idea.

Jean-Luc looked at Ro for confirmation, but found the young woman staring at Guinan with wide eyes. "Ben? Ben help Worf? You do realize how much he hates him, don't you?"

Jean-Luc was confused. "Ben hates Worf? Why?"

"It's a long story," Ro answered.

"A long story that needs a new ending," Guinan added. "Ben and Wesley would be the best people for the job."

"That's crazy," Ro protested. "I can't believe—"

A knock on the door interrupted her.

The four of them instinctively stepped farther into the hall, away from the door. Jean-Luc took charge. "Guinan, take Wesley to find Ben and send them out there to retrieve Worf and the passengers as soon as possible. Please find someone to take your place." He looked at Miss Ro with a wry smile. "My wife and I will answer the door."

Guinan lit another candle from hers and gave it to Miss Ro just as another knock sounded, then disappeared in the shadows.

"Shall we?" Jean-Luc held out his hand toward the imposing front door, with a futile glance over his shoulder to the lighted room, hoping in vain to catch sight of Beverly.

"Of course." Ro tried to muster some fake enthusiasm. With Jean-Luc standing almost at attention behind her, she opened the door.

Will, Dr. Timicin and Kate stood on the doorstep, eager to come in. "Good evening, Mrs. Picard," the doctor said. "I hope it's not too soon for us to stop by for Mrs. Riker, especially since we have Mr. Riker with us."

Will looked like he was going to explode in excitement. Only his nervousness at becoming a father rendered him tongue-tied.

"And I thought maybe I could help Beverly," Kate said. "Has Deanna had the baby yet?"

Ro froze. She would be expected to know that. Perhaps she would even be expected to have been in the room, helping.

Jean-Luc saved her. "Won't you all come in?"

The three entered and Ro wordlessly led them into the front parlor, where Guinan's back-up had miraculously appeared and begun lighting the room.

Will stopped to whisper to Jean-Luc. "Is everything all right?"

"We have no idea. Just arrived."

Once inside, Dr. Timicin observed the propriety of introductions. "Captain Picard, I presume? I am Dr. David Timicin, graduate of Harvard Medical School. I've been serving as county physician since the unfortunate health crisis of my friend and colleague, Dr. Dalen Quaice."

Jean-Luc's cheek twitched at the mention of his friend's ill health. "Dr. Timicin." He gave a slight bow. "I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard, late of the French Royal Navy and more recently of the Army of the Confederate States of America." He extended a hand and Dr. Timicin took it.

"Pleased to meet you," both men said.

Will hovered over Ro expectantly. She stared at him with her mouth open, trying to think of something to say.

Kate rescued them both. "If it's all right with you," she said to Ro, "I'll go up and check on things with Beverly." She squeezed Will's arm. "And I'll let you know as soon as you can come up."

Will and Ro nodded and Kate departed. Ro noticed the young woman, Guinan's replacement, whose name she did not know, standing in the shadows awaiting instructions. "Would anyone like something to drink?" Ro asked.

"Yes," Jean-Luc took up the charge. "It is the new year, after all, and we have a great deal to celebrate."

"Why, thank you, captain," Dr. Timicin said. "I would be happy to join you in a toast."

"And I know you'd like one," Jean-Luc said to Will, still in shock at the news of his imminent fatherhood. He crossed to the bar himself and retrieved a bottle of brandy.

Ro turned to the young woman. "I'd like some water, please."

"Will you join us in a toast, Mrs. Picard?" Dr. Timicin asked.

Jean-Luc looked at her. "My wife does not usually drink alcohol," he said, leaving Ro wondering how he knew that about her. "But, perhaps, tonight, due to . . . all this excitement, my dear, you might care to join us?" He smiled a generous, unnatural-looking smile that the doctor would not realize was insincere.

Ro thought over the events of the last several hours: her risky decision to move an unprecedented seven passengers at one time; the slower than usual pace in the overloaded wagon; trusting Mr. Soong to convincingly play a drunkard to save the lives of the passengers and conductors; the dispatch of the rescue mission consisting of two men who did not get along; and, finally, Deanna Riker giving birth amid a house full of people, where she was forced to play the happy wife and hostess.

Just then, the front door opened and Marie walked in, followed by Kyle Riker and Alynna Nechayev. "Hello, everyone, my, what a wonderful way to start the new year! Our men home and a new baby!"

Ro sidled over to Jean-Luc and slid her arm through his. "Yes, darling," she said. "I think I will have a little drink."

Kyle, with Alynna perched threateningly on his arm, surveyed the room. "Looks like the party's moved over here! Thanks for hosting, captain."

Jean-Luc patted his pretend wife's arm and in that simple gesture conveyed strength and the patience to get through the trying hours ahead. Now, the concealment of their secret work depended on them keeping the others occupied and off the roads. As Jean-Luc poured drinks, however, he realized that two of his neighbors whom he definitely wanted to detain were missing from the group.

"Where are Q and Vash?" He asked innocently.

"Oh, good heavens," Marie answered mid-stride. She continued to breeze over to her brother-in-law and kissed him on both cheeks. "We'll be here till dawn if we open that subject up again."

Jean-Luc and Ro exchanged a glance. That would be plenty of time, they each thought.

* * *

Since she was a little girl, Victoria Hetrick DeLancie had seen herself as a survivor. Long before she had acquired the vocabulary to describe her dominant personality traits of resourcefulness, persuasiveness and amorality, she had developed them into a guiding trio that would empower her to constantly improve her position. This potent combination had served her well, from state to state and husband to husband, until New Year's Eve 1861, when her luck appeared to have run out.

Although a feeling of helplessness had been locked inside her subconscious since early childhood, Vash was so unfamiliar with the emotion, her defenses had been so successful at burying it, that she did not recognize it when it poked its head into her awareness in the county jail. Completely cut off from the outside world, Vash languished without legal counsel or, apparently, legal recourse. Her letters and telegrams to her husband went unanswered and she began to suspect that his silence was because he was having an affair.

Such lascivious behavior would be scandalous, but not uncharacteristic of Q—in fact, he had secretly begun his relationship with Vash while still married to his first wife. True, he was presently stationed with a regiment of men in far off Virginia, but, Vash knew, there were women in Virginia. Worse, there was one very attractive, very unattached woman that her husband already knew, from Georgia. After much deliberation, Vash zeroed in on the primary suspect in her husband's affair: Beverly Crusher.

If Beverly were having an affair with Q, then her cross-state trek would make much more sense, Vash reasoned. Never mind that, if she considered it, Q and Beverly had never seemed to really like one another. No one knew better than Vash how easily a man could be manipulated, especially when a woman held a commodity—namely, her sex—that was in short supply and conveniently located.

Vash had only recently worked out the affair notion, after Alynna had informed her that she could no longer visit her due to her pariah status among the elites of the county. She would have like to have gotten Alynna's validation of her theory. Despite her old friend's weak assurances that they would resume their relationship after Vash's current difficulties were resolved, Vash had seen the phoniness in Alynna's eyes and gestures. Vash had been dumped by friends before; she knew what abandonment looked, sounded and felt like.

But, she asked herself, _don't I have other friends?_ Where was Kate? Where were the Trois? The Barclays, Maria Maxwell, Marie Picard? Given the amount of time she had spent obsequiously flattering the Saties, she had expected Norah to defend her, perhaps to write a letter on her behalf to Atlanta.

Nothing. No one had offered to help her, no one had returned the cards she had sent. Not even her husband had bothered to write to her. Vash had to face the fact that no one was coming to save her this time. For the first time since, as a child, she had determined to forge her own destiny, she was completely alone, with no chance of rescue.

All of a sudden, Vash slipped out of the chair in which she had been sitting and collapsed in a pile on the floor. Her cheek against the cold stone floor, Vash realized that she lacked the strength to raise herself up. She struggled to wrap her shawl around her for warmth and noticed her messy red cuffs. A sticky, red-brown liquid seemed to be everywhere, on her dress, in her hair, on her hands.

Disconnected, or half-connected, images flashed through Vash's mind. She remembered how Kyle had come to visit her to tell her that she was alone and unloved in the world. Yes, it was he who had suggested that Q was having an affair. He told her that he was seizing her house and land and everything in an on it, as property of the people of the State of Georgia. The law would deal with her very harshly and she was all alone. Kyle poured her a glass of champagne to celebrate the new year and, shortly after drinking it, she had begun to feel woozy.

She remembered sitting at her small desk, writing . . . something. Kyle was helping her. He helped her write her letter and he helped her with the letter opener—the sharp, silver letter opener. The metal had felt cold against her wrists and it had hurt. Kyle had helped her.

She felt awful. Maybe she had a hangover? She only remembered the one glass of champagne, but when one gets drunk enough to black out, Vash knew from experience, almost anything could have happened.

This life was over, she knew. But, eventually, Vash thought through the haze of her light-headedness, she would get out of jail, move away and start all over. Maybe in the North, next time, where no one knew her. She had nothing left here, no one and no thing. She felt so cold. She closed her eyes, searching for warmth and rest.


	56. Chapter 56

Beverly had registered the noises downstairs but easily ignored them as she tended to her patients. She monitored Deanna's heart rate and color and was pleased to see an immediate improvement postpartum. She cleaned up the afterbirth and gently washed Deanna, going over with the new mother the care that she would need over the coming days. Between Lwaxanna and her, they helped Deanna learn how to nurse him and she noted that the baby seemed to latch on well. She told both mother and grandmother that the baby would need to eat frequently and would only sleep for short periods of time. Fortunately, Guinan had brought several blankets that Marie had made into the room and Beverly stressed the importance of keeping the tiny infant warm. Two of the cooks had carried the food she had ordered prepared up on trays and she had gotten Deanna, as excited as she was, to eat some stew, greens and cornbread. Once everyone appeared taken care of, she sat down in a comfortable chair to give her body, if not her mind, some rest.

Beverly had forgotten all about the commotion in the house when she heard a knock on the door and the unmistakable voice of Kate Pulaski. "Beverly, do you need any help?"

"Yes, come in."

Upon seeing Deanna holding the baby to her breast and a disheveled but radiant Lwaxanna sitting on the bed beside her, Kate smiled. "Boy or girl?"

"A boy," Lwaxanna could not help but gush. She clamped a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry, little one. I should have let you answer," she said to her daughter.

Deanna did not need to look up from her nursing child. She smiled, serene. "His name is William Thomas Riker, Jr.," she said quietly and proudly.

"That's wonderful," Beverly breathed.

"Of course!" Lwaxanna said.

"How very nice." Kate looked around the room and noted that, although the room was messy and smelled of the occupants' efforts, everyone seemed to be all right. She smiled at the new mother and child, then delivered her news. "If that's junior, then we'd better get senior up here."

"Senior?" Deanna looked away from her son for the first time to question the smiling Kate.

Lwaxanna did as well.

Beverly opened the eyes she had just closed.

Once Kate had everyone's attention, she announced, "Yes, Lt. Riker is downstairs right now! The regiment was finally granted leave."

"Oh!" Lwaxanna exclaimed, for her shocked daughter. "Well, send him up!"

 _Jean-Luc,_ Beverly thought but could not say. _Jean-Luc must be home, too._ Her lips parted as if in anticipation, but she closed her mouth before anyone could notice. She had to see him, but how?

"The captain and Mrs. Picard are downstairs with Dr. Timicin and Lt. Riker," Guinan announced.

"Dr. Timicin is here?" Lwaxanna jumped off the bed a little too enthusiastically. Embarrassed, she turned to Deanna. "Why don't I go down and tell Will to come up?"

"Yes, please, mother." While Deanna was glad to have had her mother with her when William was born, she rather liked the idea of her making herself scarce so that she could be alone with Will.

"Oh, I must look a fright," Lwaxanna fretted, pinching her cheeks and re-arranging her hair on her way out the door.

Deanna watched as tiny William's lips stopped sucking and pursed together. His eyes were closed and he looked like he had fallen asleep. His little face was perfect.

Kate bustled around the room collecting bloody sheets, towels and instruments. She emptied the basins of water out the window, stuffed the linens and other items into the basins, as much as they would fit, then scanned the room. Fresh bedding was stacked on a chair. She replaced Deanna's damp pillowcase with a new one, maneuvered a dry sheet underneath her as best she could, and covered the bed with a clean quilt. Satisfied that she had remove all evidence that a baby had just been born, with the exception of one thing, she turned to that last remaining thing. "Come on, Beverly," she said, standing above her resting colleague. "You and I will have to give them a moment alone."

Energized by the thought of seeing Jean-Luc, Beverly stood up too quickly. She felt faint and immediately sat back down. Before Kate could give the order, she lifted her water glass and took a healthy drink.

There was a knock on the door.

Deanna answered, "Come in." She felt her heart pounding as she looked over her shoulder in time to see . . .

. . . Will shyly poke his head into the room, as if feeling that he did not belong in this sanctuary of women.

"Hello," Deanna said warmly, her eyes and lips smiling fully at him. Tears filled her eyes. Her prayers had been answered this night—twice.

Although squeamish about what had just occurred in the room, and the presence of the two midwives, Will focused on the beautiful face he had dreamed of for so long. He could scarcely believe he was really—finally—with her again. He stepped toward her and looked at the bundle of blankets in her arms, the tiny face peeping out of one end, sleeping peacefully. He felt both awed and afraid.

Deanna was thankful that she was already reclining, for the sight of her beloved would surely have made her weak in the knees.

"Have a seat, Will." Her arms full, Kate nodded toward the bed.

Beverly was eating some cornbread to make sure she would be able to walk out of the room without passing out. "Kate," she said between bites, "please take those things out to the hall, then help me." She turned to the happy couple lying together on the bed. "Welcome home, Will."

Will took his eyes of his wife and son to briefly smile back at Beverly. "Thank you. And thank you for helping Deanna and . . . William."

Beverly felt a lump in her throat and saw tears form in her eyes. "I'm so glad that you're back, that the two of you are together."

Will kissed Deanna's forehead. "We are, too." He looked up to tell Beverly where Jean-Luc was and how he was occupied, but Kate had returned.

"All right," Kate said. "The new family looks to be well settled. Will, help yourself to the food. There's plenty."

As soon as she mentioned the food, Will felt hungry. From his perch next to his wife, he looked over the food tray.

"I'm going to just make a plate for Beverly and we'll be right out of your way."

"But, Deanna," Beverly warned, "I'll be right down the hall. I want you to send Will to get me if you don't feel well or anything happens. If you have any problems or questions about the baby or yourself. Please come get me."

"We will," Deanna promised, looking at her friend and seeing her for the first time in hours. "I'll take good care of him and of myself."

Beverly nodded, trusting Deanna's word. "And one last thing. Will, please take your boots off." She looked at his feet, resting on top of Marie's quilt.

The tall man quickly sat up to comply.

"All right, Beverly." Kate had piled a generous helping of food on to a plate and extended an arm to assist her colleague.

Beverly smiled at her friends one more time, then stood, fairly sure that she was able to walk, although the light-headed feeling had not completely disappeared, and accompanied Kate out of the bedroom. Despite the fourteen hours or so she had spent in the labor room, her dehydration, the piles in the hall that needed to be sent to be cleaned and her precarious walking, Beverly could only thing of one thing, or, more accurately, one person: _Jean-Luc._

Standing in the upstairs hall, Beverly saw light coming from the front parlor and heard voices—Kyle Riker's loud thundering, Dr. Timicin, then _him._ She heard Jean-Luc's deep, confident voice and she stopped and breathed in suddenly, without thinking, to keep hearing him speak. So eager to see him, her body trembled.

"Oh, my," Kate said, misinterpreting Beverly's response as indicative of a medical problem. "We'd better get you to bed and I'll take a look at you. I'll come back for those things later. Now, which is your bedroom?"

As much as Beverly did not want to go to bed and did not want to be examined by Kate, she knew that getting checked to make sure she had not overextended herself was the proper course. But, she was in a quandary. She could not lead Kate to her bedroom, because it was also Jean-Luc's room, with all of his things as well as hers. The other guest rooms were devoid of any personal belongings. One room was the schoolroom, which had to remain undiscovered. Dalen's room and Marie's room rounded out the second floor.

"Um . . . ."

Kate's eyes grew wide at Beverly's apparent disorientation. Clearly, her colleague was severely fatigued and in need of nourishment.

Startling both women, Guinan suddenly appeared from the direction of the back staircase. "Dr. Crusher, do you need some help?"

Without waiting for a response, she took Beverly's other arm and led her to the guest bedroom across the hall from Deanna's room. When the women entered, Beverly saw some of her plants along the windowsills and some of her books on the nightstand. Her nana's throw and her nightgown were lying casually along the foot of the bed, as though she had tossed them there earlier. Guinan had saved her again.

"Let's get you into bed, Dr. Crusher," Guinan was saying.

Beverly noticed a pitcher of water and glasses on the nightstand as well. Guinan had thought of everything.

"Guinan," Kate said, "in the hall, there are—"

"I'm having one of the cooks take all that down to the kitchen and the laundry," Guinan said. "Do you women need anything else?"

Kate looked about. "No, I think we're all set. I'm going to check Beverly, then tuck her in and go home."

Guinan tried to attract Beverly's attention, but the latter had climbed into bed in her dress and closed her eyes with a sigh of exhaustion. Kate sat down on the bed next to her and lifted up her hand to check her pulse and skin temperature. Guinan cleared her throat, but Beverly did not catch on. Kate leaned over her to feel her forehead.

"Dr. Pulaski," Guinan finally said, "I can speak to Madame Picard about giving you a room here to stay the night."

"Oh, no, that's fine," Kate replied hastily. "I wouldn't want to put anyone to any trouble."

"I'm sure it's not as much trouble as sending you out on the roads at this hour." To end the conversation on her terms, Guinan started out of the room. She was unable to tell if Beverly was merely tired or if there was something wrong with her. Beverly had been stressed and on and off her feet all day, since the late morning, when she had discovered that Deanna needed to deliver her baby. Guinan had seen Beverly give orders and prepare everything, as well as tend to her patient and do everything in her power to bring on labor.

"Guinan!" Beverly opened her eyes, realizing that once Guinan left, they would be effectively cut off from the goings on downstairs. "What's going on down in the front parlor?"

"Nothing that concerns you," Kate answered. "You've had a very long day and the last thing you need is to join a very late New Year's Eve celebration."

"Who's there?" Beverly tried to sound innocent.

Guinan looked at her. "Madame Picard, Captain Picard and Mrs. Picard are hosting Senator Riker, Dr. Timicin, Mrs. Troi and Mrs. Nechayev."

Kate made note of the fact that the senator had arrived. Well, he did just become a grandfather, she thought. She could bring news of the happy young family to the group. Let them know everyone was all right. "I'll be down as soon as I've examined Mrs. Crusher," she told Guinan. "Maybe I will take you up on the offer of a room, if Marie makes it."

"I'm sure she will," Beverly said, her eyes following Guinan out the door, wishing they could follow her downstairs to see Jean-Luc. She just had to eat something and drink a little more so that she would have the energy.

"Beverly, I'd like you to eat something and drink a little more before you go to sleep," Kate said, arranging the plate next to her on the bed.

"Mm-hm," Beverly muttered as she reached over to butter a biscuit. "I'm starving. Don't worry, I'll eat."

"You're wearing your clothes."

Beverly nodded. "In case Deanna needs me during the night."

"Maybe I better stay here, in case you need me during the night."

Beverly nodded. "Thank you," she said, then ate a bite of the biscuit.

The two women talked for a while and Beverly told her how Deanna's dire condition had led her to feed Deanna a special mixture of herbs and to massage her for hours until she finally went into labor. She continued to eat as she explained the post-natal care Deanna would need over the next few days and what symptoms could presage a serious problem.

Satisfied that her patient was following her medical advice, Kate stood up. "All right, I'll make arrangements with Guinan to stay here overnight. You take care of yourself and get some rest."

When Kate departed, Beverly lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes—only for a moment, she planned. _Jean-Luc was here!_ She could not wait to see him. She would brush and re-arrange her hair, freshen up and change into clean clothes. How would they get together? She wished she knew what was happening downstairs. She trusted Jean-Luc to figure out a way to see her. She only needed to be ready when he did. First, she would just rest for a few minutes.

* * *

Q loudly berated his cousin, Sheriff Q, during the entire ride into town. "How could you lock her up? She's family. Why on earth didn't you contact me? You should never have let this happen. Where is your loyalty to me?" He went on and on, despite Sheriff Q's protestations that Kyle had wielded the hammer of the law behind his actions. "She should have been released on her own recognizance. A woman of her stature, left in jail—unheard of!"

Outside the jailhouse, Q rapidly dismounted and tossed his reins to the sheriff to tie up his horse for him. He ran inside the small structure and, rounding a corner, found his wife lying on the ground, with blood all around her.

"Vash! Vash!" He yelled. He grabbed hold of the bars of her cell and rattled them, but she did not stir. "Q! Over here, quickly!"

Sheriff Q stepped into the corridor in front of the cells and was shocked at the sight of his prisoner unresponsive.

"Quick, you idiot!" Q yelled. "Open the cell! Hurry!"

Sheriff Q fumbled the keys, nervous due to the urgency of his task and more than a little inebriated from the party.

"Give them to me!" Q grabbed his cousin's hands.

"I've got it," Sheriff Q protested, his clumsy fingers finally encircling one silver key.

Q ripped the key ring out of Sheriff Q's hands and unlocked the door. He knelt down and lifted Vash's limp form into his lap. Her body was cold, her skin white-blue. Dried blood had caked on her cheek and bodice and trailed down her sleeves.

Q's eyes clouded as he squeezed her to his chest. "No," he said. "This can't be happening. It can't. I can't believe it."

Sheriff Q shuffled into the cell. "Oh, jiminy."

"How? How could this happen?"

Sheriff Q repeated "jiminy," to himself several times, removed his hat, ran his hand through his hair, and walked about the small cell cluttered with the many items Vash had accumulated for her comfort. On her bedspread, he found the silver letter opener, covered in red-brown blood. He lifted it up and managed to whisper, "Q."

Seeing the instrument of his wife's death left no question in Q's mind as to what had happened, or who was to blame. His rage built as he stared at the letter opener and squeezed Vash's lifeless body to his own. He knew as well as he knew his own mind that the wife he had left eight months ago would never have taken her own life. In his mind, Vash was murdered, regardless of whose hand had guided the letter opener across her wrists. In his grieving, he found space to harbor one more burgeoning feeling: a need for revenge.

Q rose, carrying Vash's body in his arms. Without speaking, he walked out of the cell and the jailhouse, out into the night.

Sheriff Q sat at on the bed for uncounted minutes, in utter shock that a life had been lost, in his jail, on his watch. When he finally stood up, he walked around the cell aimlessly, the last place in which Vash had walked this earth, pondering what she had felt and thought that had made her take her own life. His eyes wandered around the small compartment and eventually rested on a letter on her small desk.

"Jiminy cricket," Sheriff Q said as he read the final words of his late cousin-in-law.

* * *

The drawn-out story of Vash's arrest and continued detention had succeeded in distracting Jean-Luc from thoughts of Beverly as he tried to comprehend the depth of Kyle's vengefulness and the ramifications to everyone in his orbit of the man's abuse of legal process to hurt his enemy, Q. Casting Q and Kyle as enemies caused him to recall the old saying, "The enemy of my enemy is my friend," but, in this situation, he did not think that it applied. It was now clear to him that Kyle was as dangerous a man as Q.

Perhaps, however, their rivalry could work to his advantage. As long as the two of them were preoccupied with each other, they would have less time to meddle in his businesses, legal and illegal. Of course, Vash having been arrested, no one would be looking for any other smugglers in the county—or would they? Did Kyle actually believe Vash to be guilty or had he merely used the knowledge of an underground railroad station nearby as an excuse to persecute her? Lastly, Jean-Luc considered that someone else may have framed Vash. The prime suspect in that scenario, he believed, was the thin woman sitting next to him on the couch, suffering in her forced socializing.

Despite the late hour, none of his guests appeared ready to leave. Kyle seemed to be assessing Jean-Luc, much as Jean-Luc was using the impromptu gathering to learn more about Kyle. Jean-Luc told unexciting tales of army life to satisfy his inquisitor's apparent need to evaluate his command ability. Dr. Timicin seemed fine, but not as pleasant or conversational as Dalen. Marie, of course, was her usual delightful self, making sure that everyone was happy, or at least presenting as such. Alynna took part in the light banter of the group, but her eyes also appeared to be scheming, Jean-Luc thought, hiding an intelligence she may not wish to advertise.

Of course, a great deal of the conversation centered on the new baby and the fortunate parents.

"Yoo-hoo, captain," Lwaxanna called to him in his reverie, "I hope the two of you will be the next parents to make a happy announcement." She wagged her finger between Miss Ro and him.

Ro patted his cheek affectionately. "Maybe, now that we have a chance to spend some time together."

He smiled at her, more as a compliment of her improved playacting skills. "Nothing would make me happier than becoming a father," he said truthfully.

Ro smiled at his own deception.

"Oh, Kate, please join us," Marie said upon seeing the midwife walk cautiously into the room. "How is Deanna? How's the baby?"

"They're all doing very well." Kate's smile lit up her face.

Alynna, still not interested in childbirth, thought it would be a good idea to move the conversation along. She was quite fascinated watching Captain and Mrs. Picard together and was in no hurry to end the evening. "Kate, what happened? How did Deanna end up going into labor so early?"

"Well, Deanna didn't exactly go into labor naturally. Beverly induced labor because Deanna was in some distress and the baby and she could have been in serious danger. Really, Deanna's very lucky that Beverly was able to bring labor on and help both baby and mother. Very few midwives—"

"Come now, Kate," Kyle interrupted, "I'm sure we don't need all the gory details, eh, Captain?"

Jean-Luc had perked up at the mention of Beverly and would have loved to have heard more details about her role, if not a graphic description of the birth itself. From the start of Kate's narrative, it sounded as though his wife's impressive medical skills had once again saved lives. He smiled at the senator's question, secretly proud of Beverly. "It's very good to learn that mother and child are doing well."

"Without providing too many details," Dr. Timicin began, to insert himself into the discussion, "I will second Mrs. Pulaski's opinion that Beverly Crusher is an extraordinarily talented medical professional. A few months ago, she saved J.P. Henson's wife's life. I've never seen anything like her surgical skills in all my years of practicing medicine, even at Harvard."

Kyle chuckled. "Really? A woman?"

"That was my thought at first, of course. But, Mrs. Crusher truly is a very intelligent, remarkable woman. I suppose her dedication to her work is why she never remarried."

Alynna had been watching Miss Ro since Beverly's name had been mentioned and she saw the young woman begin to squirm. Dr. Timicin's remark about Beverly's marital status then made Jean-Luc abandon his studied evenness and he frowned. He turned to Ro and took her hand. Alynna enjoyed their discomfort.

Everyone else turned to look at the Picards.

Ro saw the opportunity she had awaited for what felt like hours. "Well, it's very late and I'm sure we're all tired. Thank you for sharing—"

The sound of footsteps in the hall drew everyone's attention. Wesley stepped out of the darkness.

"Excuse me," Wesley said in the doorway. "I just wanted to say goodnight and Happy New Year to everyone. I was with Mr. Soong, who had some, uh, difficulty this evening." He looked at the captain. "Things got a little rowdy and some other people were disturbed."

"Is everything all right now, Wes?" Jean-Luc asked.

"Yes, sir. Everyone is settled in where they're supposed to be."

Jean-Luc communicated his approval with his eyes. Used to his commanding officer's nonverbal cues, Wesley understood and bowed to the group before leaving.

"Wesley! Wesley Crusher!" Kyle stood up as he shouted to the young man.

At first, Wesley thought his freedom of movement might be questioned and looked to Jean-Luc for guidance.

Kyle quickly disarmed him. "I owe you an apology, Wesley, and I want you to come in here so that I can pour you a drink."

Wesley hesitated.

"Is this Beverly Crusher's son?" Dr. Timicin asked, in a tone of wondrous excitement.

Kyle strode out to meet Wesley and wrap an arm around his shoulders. "Come in, come in, son. Now that I know you weren't the abolitionist smuggler, I want to make sure I apologize." He turned to the group. "Now that we know it was Q all along. He must have framed Wesley to cover up his own dastardly operation."

Murmurs of agreement issued from the group. To be politick, Wesley downed a few glasses of Jean-Luc's spirits, graciously offered by Kyle, as the latter apologized and talked about what a fine young man Wesley was, serving his country. Next, Wesley was subject to questioning by Dr. Timicin, who found him a fascinating specimen who, being male, was certain to be even more intelligent than his genetically gifted mother, but who, alas, was uninterested in medicine.

After Dr. Timicin's protracted questioning of the young man, Lwaxanna grew positively bored. "Well, I think I'll just go up and check on Deanna." She stood.

Marie joined her. "That's a good idea. I'll come up with you." She turned to the group. "Of course, it's so late, I'd be happy to put you all up for the night." Belatedly, she looked to Jean-Luc for approval and saw the sparkle of the polite host in his eyes recede.

"Yes," he added, hoping no one noticed his displeasure with the offer, "of course, you're all welcome to stay."

Alynna, who had noticed, smirked at Jean-Luc's unwilling invitation. "Thank you, Captain, that's very gracious of you, but I live so close by, I'm sure I can get home safely."

Kyle jumped at his chance. "Mrs. Nechayev, I would be more than happy to see you home. I need to get back to my house to attend to state business in the morning."

No one believed his excuse, but no one said anything contrary.

"Thank you, Marie, I'd like to stay," Kate said, "if only to help Deanna and Beverly."

"Yes, thank you, Madame Picard," Dr. Timicin added. "I would be much obliged to you for sparing me a perilous journey back to town in the darkest hours of the night."

Ro could not help rolling her eyes. She was shocked to discover Alynna give her a winking smile.

"Good, then it's all settled. I'll have Guinan fix up rooms for everyone and I'll say my good nights to the senator and my dear neighbor." Marie flitted about the room like a happy butterfly and, indeed, the birth of a new life in her house had lightened her mood immensely.

After seeing Kyle and Alynna out, the remaining cluster headed up the stairs. Jean-Luc and Miss Ro brought up the rear, arm in arm.

"Can we go back to my house?" Ro whispered.

Jean-Luc knew it was a good idea, but he could not bear the thought of leaving Beverly behind.

Understanding his hesitation, Ro offered, "I don't think you're going to be able to be with her tonight, with this crowd. She'll be busy with Deanna, anyway."

Jean-Luc nodded, but could not make his body understand the logic. If there was some way of even _seeing_ Beverly, he needed to stay here in his house, because he needed to see her.

At the top of the stairs, Guinan directed the traffic. "Dr. Crusher's sleeping in this room," she announced, making sure that Jean-Luc saw that she indicated the door next to his.

Each guest was shown his or her bedroom and a small group was allowed to look in on Deanna. Will briefly appeared in the hall to receive congratulations, including a hearty pat on the back from Jean-Luc and a peck on the cheek from Ro. Exhausted, Wesley slunk off to bed. Marie kissed Jean-Luc again and hugged him.

"I'm so very happy that you're home," she said before going to her bedroom.

From her oversized happiness at his presence, Jean-Luc was left with the distinct impression that Marie knew something that she was not telling him.

Ro tried not to look awkward as everyone scurried back and forth in the hall. She did not feel comfortable going into Jean-Luc's bedroom with him, thus she tried to feign a hostess's concern with her guests' comfort. She smiled at Dr. Timicin when he remarked on the baby's good color despite his low birth weight. She asked if Kate had everything she needed. Guinan finally raised a thin eyebrow in her direction and she met up with Jean-Luc again in the hall.

"Shall we, my dear?" Jean-Luc said, opening his bedroom door. "Good night, all," he called to the emptying hall.

Inside the sanctity of the bedroom, Ro sighed loudly. "That was exhausting."

Jean-Luc smiled as he unbuttoned his uniform jacket. "That was not the worst encounter we could possibly have had. The important thing is that Worf and the passengers are all safe." Crossing to the far side of the room, he found a blanket in the bottom of a cedar chest. "I'll sleep on the divan. You take the bed."

Ro felt odd displacing him. "But, it's your bed. You should sleep in it."

Jean-Luc would not brook any disagreement. "This is luxurious compared to my recent sleeping arrangements." He spread the blanket out on the cushions. "At any rate, I hope to spend at least part of my night in a different room, which will be quite comfortable." He took off his jacket and draped it around a straight-backed chair. The same chair, in fact, in which he had made love to Beverly for the first time—a memory that flashed into his mind and prompted his hand to linger on the jacket for a moment of longing.

Ro blushed. Her tipsiness, Jean-Luc's evident preoccupation with sex and being alone with him in his bedroom were all combining to produce an unwelcome arousal in her. Opening the covers of the bed, she sat down, slipped off her shoes, then hurried underneath the blanket and comforter.

Her speed caught Jean-Luc's attention. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, uh, fine. It's just . . . this just feels a little awkward." She began to remove her dress under the covers, acutely aware that her movements likely announced her hidden actions.

"Agreed."

Oblivious to the heightened emotions of his business partner, Jean-Luc came closer to the bed on his way to the door. Holding his ear against the thick wood, he heard Dr. Timicin's voice. "Damn it," he muttered.

He walked back, sighed and sat down on the divan to think. He needed to wait until the newly settled partiers had all fallen asleep, so as not to be heard. Looking about his bedroom, taking in the familiar surroundings that he had not seen in months, he caught sight of a book on the vanity.

 _King Lear._ He smiled as he settled back on to the comfortable divan, planning to read while the rest of the household succumbed to their dreams. The beautiful language normally comforted and entertained him, but tonight he had difficulty staying focused.

"Are you going to leave that light on?"

"Hm?"

Ro rolled over in his direction. "I'm trying to sleep. The light is keeping me awake."

Jean-Luc was defensive. "I'm only going to read until the house has fallen asleep. Then, I'll sneak out to Beverly's room."

Ro looked at him. "Weren't you traveling all day? Aren't you dog tired? It must be three in the morning."

"I'm . . . tired, yes, but I don't feel like sleeping."

"Have you thought that maybe Beverly's sound asleep? I don't hear any knocking on the wall." Her eyes shot toward the wall between their room and Beverly's. "We were as loud as a herd of elephants coming upstairs. If that woke her, wouldn't she be signaling to you?"

Jean-Luc's heart raced. He had not thought to try to communicate with Beverly through the wall, but as soon as Ro suggested it, he clung to the idea like a drowning man grabbing a riverbank tree branch.

He stood up and leaned into the wall, his ear pinned against it. "Beverly?" He whispered urgently.

No response.

"Beverly?" He said a little louder. He moved along the wall, over and around furniture, rapping on the wood with his knuckles and repeating her name. "Beverly? Beverly?"

"A little louder. I don't think Kate Pulaski heard you." Ro was tired and peevish after her long, difficult day. Whatever reverence she normally would have shown the captain was buried beneath her irritation and the inhibition-lifting effects of the alcohol.

Jean-Luc turned toward the bed. Miss Ro had rolled over again, thus only her back taunted him. He decided he had had enough waiting. He set the candle on the nightstand and blew it out. Easily finding the doorknob, he slowly turned it and gingerly opened the door, as narrowly as possible to allow him to sneak through the doorway, his excitement building. He backed out into the pitch black of the hall and closed the door without making a sound. Feeling successful thus far, he turned and took a step. His foot landed on someone else's.

"Ah!"

He heard a muffled feminine cry and reached out. He caught the wrist of the person he had run into to steady her. Once righted, the woman's hands reached out and blindly touched his chest, his chin and his hair, sliding up to his bald head.

With a gasp, the woman pulled away. "Captain!"

"Mrs. Troi," Jean-Luc said, recognizing her voice and, he realized, her overpowering perfume.

"Oh, uh, I . . . I'm so sorry," Lwaxanna said. "I was just on my way to check on Deanna." She seemed to regain some degree of lucid thought. "Silly me, I left my room without a candle."

Jean-Luc had no such ready excuse. "I, uh . . . I don't have a candle either."

"I'll just," Lwaxanna sounded farther away, as though backing toward her room, "I'll just go get one."

"Yes, I'll, uh, . . . good night."

Embarrassed, Jean-Luc re-entered his bedroom and leaned against the inside of the door.

"That was quick."

The room was dark, but Jean-Luc glared in the direction of the voice. "I don't know if you realize how much you have in common with my wife."

"What?" Ro sounded worried.

"Your sense of humor."

"Oh."

"What did you think I meant?"

"Beverly!" Jean-Luc jumped at hearing her name called loudly out in the hall. "Beverly!" He recognized Will's voice and opened his door in time to see Beverly fly across the hall into Deanna's room with Will behind her saying, "She just started bleeding, really bad."

Worried, Jean-Luc stepped out into the hall. Kate came out of her room and, without noticing him, followed the others. "What can I do?"

"Go downstairs and get hot water and clean towels. In the kitchen, I have a pouch with raspberry leaves and some bark. Bring that up." Beverly poured a glass of water from the nearly empty pitcher and opened a dark-colored jar. She carefully allowed a few drops of a tincture into the water glass and began to stir it with a spoon. "Kate we'll need more cold water to drink, too. Wake up Guinan. Her room is next to the kitchen."

Receding into the shadows, Jean-Luc hid from Kate as she swung out the open doorway and down the stairs. The baby began to cry.

"Will, I need you to take William and go into my room. You can't help and you'll only be in the way here." Beverly issued orders as she fussed over Deanna.

The big man leaned over to kiss his wife, whisper, "I love you," and pick up his son.

"Walk around with him if he doesn't go right back to sleep." Beverly called out the advice without looking up from her patient.

In the hall, a worried Will passed Jean-Luc, intent on doing exactly as Beverly had instructed.

"Now, I want you to drink this whole glass."

Beverly sat down on the far side of the bead and helped support Deanna's shoulders. Hesitating in the doorway, Jean-Luc saw that the young woman's face looked pale and wet, her hair hanging in tangled ringlets down her shoulders. A pool of blood had collected and was visible where Beverly had lifted the quilt. He felt ashamed, trespassing on Deanna's privacy to steal a glimpse of Beverly.

Focused on helping Deanna, Beverly did not look up to see him. Although she wore an unassuming, long-sleeved and high-necked brown dress, which seemed to have been stained by her previous work this night, he thought she looked beautiful. Her tired face managed to convey both compassion and efficiency, as though she could simultaneously both hold Deanna gently and tend to her bleeding. She murmured softly and rubbed Deanna's back. He loved watching her help people. In her world of softness, of touching and healing people—very much the opposite of his own solitary realm of warfare—she shone.

When Deanna finished drinking the water, Beverly said, "Good," and looked up, suddenly able to see behind Deanna and the bed. "Jean-Luc," she gasped. He wore his gray uniform pants, with his white officer's shirt unbuttoned at the neck and his sleeves rolled up above his wrists—her thoughts raced to the things he did to her with those hands.

They caught each other's eyes.

Something passed between them, re-connecting them, grounding them. Exciting them.

Deanna felt it, too, a joyousness, and swiveled to find Jean-Luc staring at Beverly as if rooted to the spot.

When Jean-Luc noticed her looking at him, he blushed. "Oh, I'm, uh, I'm very sorry, Mrs. Riker. I'll leave." He bowed his head and took one step back.

Beverly kept her eyes on him, wishing that he could stay. "I—" She was not sure what to say to him, with so much that she wanted to tell him, yet so little time. She had to tend to Deanna and Kate could return at any moment. If only she could have held him and kissed him—that would have said it all.

Her one syllable was enough to stop him. He froze, with his hand on the doorjamb and only one leg still in the room, and looked at her expectantly. Even though the few feet and the circumstances separating them tortured him, he smiled at the sight of her.

"I love you," Jean-Luc said quietly. "I'll see you soon."

Beverly nodded, unable to speak. She felt Deanna's pulse in her wrist, around which Beverly's left hand was wrapped, and the beating brought her back to the task at hand. Trying to think quickly, she suggested, "Mid-morning. I should be free by mid-morning."

She watched as Jean-Luc nodded and backed out, her heart pining for him, her body beginning to react to the sight of him, but her mind returning to the urgency of stopping Deanna's womb from contracting.

Eager to leave the women alone to address whatever issue of female anatomy was causing the immediate crisis, Jean-Luc nevertheless paused outside the door to think of holding Beverly in his arms again. He heard someone on the stairs and quietly slipped back to his room to steal a few hours of sleep.

Beverly had Deanna lie down. She moved blankets and sheets around, took towels from Kate to sop up the blood. "Don't worry, we'll have this under control in no time," she soothed her friend, who did indeed appear to be calming. "It's a very common side effect of inducing labor that we can stop with a natural remedy."

Only hours, they both thought. We only need to wait a handful of hours before we will be together, mid-morning.


	57. Chapter 57

Hello, another chapter of difficulties for our couple! Surely, they'll be together soon, right? Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, ~ Liz

* * *

Mid-morning found Jean-Luc, functioning on scarcely two hours' sleep and Guinan's strongest coffee, standing outside his barn with Worf, Mr. Soong, Ro and Ben. Their meeting to discuss the transport of the passengers to the next station had been interrupted by Wesley, who had come speeding around the house on Dr. Timicin's horse to report the horrible incident that had occurred overnight at the jail.

"Sheriff Q and Major DeLancie found Mrs. DeLancie last night in her cell. By the time they got there, it was too late. She was gone," Wesley finished.

"How do you know that is what happened?" Worf interrogated. "Who did you hear that from?"

"From Sheriff Q himself. He's at the bar in the hotel, telling everyone about it."

"The hotel bar is open at this hour?" Ro wondered.

"I don't think it usually is. It looks like it's open just for Sheriff Q."

Sharing Worf's skepticism, Mr. Soong asked, "Did Dr. Timicin examine the body?"

Wesley shook his head. "Q took her body with him and Dr. Timicin went into town with me. When we saw all the commotion, we walked over to the hotel together and found out."

Worf frowned, although he was not completely sure how this development would affect them. "This is . . . not good."

"What happens now?" Ro asked.

Jean-Luc had been thoughtfully quiet and clearly disturbed upon hearing the news. "I don't know what happens legally. As a practical matter, however . . . may I have a word with you?" He asked the woman posing as his wife.

Without Jean-Luc, everyone was an equal partner in the railroad and decisions were made by committee. However, his return from the army injected a hierarchy into the enterprise, in which Ro and he occupied leadership positions. Ro did not like being singled out for responsibility. Nevertheless, when she scanned the other men, they appeared not only to have no objection to the private conversation, but to encourage her to speak with the captain, perhaps to gain his insights.

Nodding, she followed his direction and the two of them walked off toward the house, away from the direction of the tunnel. Far on the side of the building, through Beverly's sleeping gardens and the play area for the young children, Jean-Luc stopped, grabbed her arm tightly and spoke urgently.

"Did you do something to frame Vash? Were you—or the others—involved in any way?" Jean-Luc held his breath.

Ro pulled her arm out of his grip. "That depends on how you define 'involved.'"

That was not the answer Jean-Luc had sought and he grew even more worried. "What did you do?"

Ro glared at him, bristling at his critical tone, started to speak, then looked around to make sure no one was nearby before she answered. "We tried to frame Alynna Nechayev." She explained the group's ruse. "But, we had nothing to do with Vash. I have no idea if the things we put out on Alynna's land were used to frame Vash. Kyle said that he had evidence, but never said what it was."

Jean-Luc processed a number of interesting ideas that sprang from her information until he whittled down the possibilities to a hypothesis that Alynna was somehow collaborating with Kyle. To what end? Financial, he immediately concluded. Alynna must be getting something out of her arrangement with Kyle and, given her property's proximity to the DeLancie estate, he had a pretty good idea what her compensation would be.

He remembered a detail that had been shared last night. "Planters all over the county reported that people—slaves—were missing from their properties. Did you have a hand in that?" He asked with some trepidation.

"Yes," Ro admitted proudly. "We had begun to communicate with trusted people on the other plantations and we started sending a few people here and there through the railroad."

Shocked, Jean-Luc leaned back, his mouth opening automatically, even though he had no idea what to say. His eyes bore into her, silently accusing her of all the ramifications—known and unknown—of her decision.

"But, it's all right. Vash was blamed for everything that happened, and now . . . ," Ro caught herself and amended her overly cheerful tone, "while I'm not happy that she's dead, her arrest and death mean that no one is going to be looking for abolitionists anymore."

Jean-Luc shook his head. "This is not over. As conniving as she is, or was, Vash was not assumed to be the mastermind, or to be working on her own. You heard Kyle Riker last night. He intends to arrest Q and to seize his land. Q will most certainly not go down without a fight. And when he exonerates himself and his late wife, the search for the smugglers will begin again."

"And how long will that take? How many more lives can we save before there's even an ounce of suspicion on us?"

Jean-Luc stared at the persistent young woman before him and thought of Guinan's caveat to him earlier, just before he had joined his house guests for breakfast.

"She's stubborn, that one. Ever since she was a child. She won't stop until she's dead," Guinan had warned him in urging him to speak with her.

Again, Jean-Luc shook his head. "There's too much at risk. If we are discovered, the previous and next stations could be found, also. Troop movements will increase across the county now as both sides prepare for conflict in the spring, significantly raising the odds of being detected. I would imagine that the very fiber of the population is prickling. Many areas may be virtual powder kegs waiting for—"

"How do you know what the 'fiber of the population' is?" Ro interrupted indignantly. Hands on her hips and rage on her face, she stepped forward until she faced him. "How dare you tell me what is happening in the community where I've lived my whole life? How dare you tell me what people that I have known and lived with my whole think and feel? You've been here less than two years. You're not from the South. You're not even American."

The path to resolution, Jean-Luc knew, did not lead through angry brambles. If he had created her ire, he needed to correct his course. "Please, Miss Ro, I just ask that you listen to my assessment of the situation. I've just traveled through a significant portion of the South and I've seen things . . . ."

Fuming, Ro paced in front of him. Finally, she was able to put into words what had been bothering her ever since Jean-Luc had dismounted in front of his house last night and begun issuing orders to her and to the others. "You're not in charge. I know you're used to ordering everyone around in the army, but you're not the 'captain' of the railroad. You can't tell me what to do and I don't have to do what you say."

"Miss Ro, Laren, please—"

" _You weren't here._ You left to go play war hero and save Wesley and you left us on our own at the worst possible time. What kind of commitment to saving people do you even have? What do you really care about the railroad?"

The criticism stung him, even as logic insisted that her points were ill-founded and emotional, perhaps connected to some remembered, perhaps deep-seated, abandonment. He swallowed the lump in his throat. He had to try to make her understand the folly of her aggressive raiding of nearby estates.

"All right," he said, nodding. "I apologize for my manner and my presumptiveness. Would you be willing to update me?"

"What?" His conciliatory tone caught her off guard.

"Please, explain to me what I missed while I was gone and why you made the decisions that you did."

Ro's defiant posture relaxed somewhat. She realized how angry she had become at Jean-Luc and how reasonably he had always conducted himself in the past. "This will take some time . . . ."

* * *

Having eaten a solitary, leisurely breakfast after Kate relieved her in Deanna's room, Beverly walked past the door to the side verandah, through which she saw Jean-Luc talking to Miss Ro. Reading his body language, she saw him tense and frown and knew that he disapproved of something. Although she had carefully kept her distance from him while with the army, she had nevertheless stolen some glances of him speaking to his men. Watching him command his company, she admitted, she had found his confidence attractive. However, here at home, the traits that made him who he was—in a way, more than anything else Beverly had seen in him before the war—somehow appeared out of place.

Downstairs searching for Guinan, Kate spied Beverly standing near a door in the front parlor, apparently peeping on someone outside and trying not to be seen. Kate tiptoed into the room and, through a different window, saw Captain and Mrs. Picard talking near one of the gardens. An arrow of understanding, laced with sadness, pierced Kate's heart. After all that he had done to her, Beverly was still in love with Captain Picard. Even now that she was carrying another man's child, she still had feelings for the scoundrel who had jilted her. Beverly's situation as an unwed mother-to-be was tragic enough, but, knowing that she still carried a torch for a married man made Kate hurt on behalf of her friend. She had ample experience with unrequited love herself and did not wish that pain on anyone else.

Kate quietly approached Beverly and laid a hand on her shoulder, making the younger woman jump.

"Beverly, dear, come away from the window," Kate said, reaching out and taking Beverly's arm.

Caught off guard and unsure how to react, Beverly said nothing and let Kate guide her through the parlor. The older midwife gently held Beverly's arm as she led her into the entrance hall and up the stairs. "I hope you won't think me ill-mannered for offering unsolicited advice, but I would hate to see you make the same mistake that I did, of loving a man who didn't love me back. All the wasted years . . . ."

Beverly remained silent, the forlorn look in her eyes—her unhappiness at not being with Jean-Luc—easily construable as a longing for someone she could not have.

At the door to her temporary bedroom, Kate put her hands on Beverly's shoulders. "You have yourself to think about, and your baby. What both of you need now is rest and what both of you definitely do not need, at any time or in any way, shape or form, is Jean-Luc Picard. Now, you go in there and get some sleep. And take it from me, please: don't waste another minute of your life thinking about that man." Kate looked down, realizing the impossibility of instant extrication of a man from one's heart. "Well, it won't be easy, or quick, but you have got to forget about him, for your own good as well as that of your child." She squeezed Beverly's shoulders tightly, as if to impart the emotional fortitude the besotted woman would need for the monumental task before her.

As confused as Kate was about her relationship with Jean-Luc, Beverly knew that she was right about her need for sleep. Deciding not to worry about Kate's misapprehension or its possible consequences, she tried to muster a brave half-smile. "Thank you," she said before turning into the bedroom.

Once she closed the door, however, the aching truth remained, compelling her to close her eyes and caress her breasts in anticipation: the one thing her unborn child and she desperately needed, almost as much as sleep, was Jean-Luc Picard.

* * *

Jean-Luc watched as Miss Ro stalked toward the back of the house, unsure whether his words had penetrated her ire and insistence. Listening to her tale of the last several months of railroad activity had given him context, but not persuaded him that her risk-taking was justified. Especially once he learned of Jenny's death and the men Ro had killed. Unable to secure her agreement to stop conducting passengers on the railroad—at least, for now—he tried to calm his worries and his thoughts returned to Beverly.

If all had gone according to her plan, she should be free now. All he had to do was find her and secret her into his bedroom, their bedroom, where they could finally be alone together. The sun burst through the winter clouds, lighting the brown grass and lightening his mood. He walked around to the front of the house, to enjoy more sunshine and admire the rest of his wife's handiwork in the gardens.

When he rounded the corner, however, he saw an unexpected rider speeding up the dirt path of his driveway on a fine horse. As the man approached, Jean-Luc saw that he was an African man of about thirty, with a troubled expression on his face. He began lowering himself off his mount before the animal had come to a complete stop.

Jean-Luc walked toward him, cautious and concerned. The man extracted a letter from his jacket pocket and thrust it at the captain, catching his breath and nodding. "Captain Picard, sir?"

"Yes," Jean-Luc answered, taking the letter addressed to him. He recognized the familiar handwriting immediately. _Damn it._

 _January 1, 1862_

 _Captain,_

 _Come immediately! Most urgent matter._

 _This is an order._

 _Major DeLancie_

The African man looked at him expectantly.

Jean-Luc nodded. "You can tell the major that I am on my way." He folded the letter and consigned it to his own pocket as he strode purposefully across the verandah, resolved to handle the matter with Q as rapidly as possible so that he could come home to Beverly.

* * *

Once inside the large mansion, Jean-Luc felt the air to be colder than the wind blowing outside. Although decorated—or, over-decorated, to his tastes—richly, the interior lacked the warmth that Marie always made sure their rooms conveyed. Expensive, showy pieces of art and furniture dotted the rooms without the constraints of motif or style, offending the eye, and without any personal or homemade touches. He followed the butler to a darkened salon.

His eyes were immediately drawn to the far wall of the room, where candles in neo-classic, bronze sconces illuminated . . . it was a long, black casket, in which Vash's head, resting on a cream-colored pillow was plainly visible. _Dear God,_ Jean-Luc thought reflexively, to lose one's wife . . . . His stomach clenched at such a horrendous thought and he quickly dismissed it, before his mind conjured Beverly's visage in a similar death's pose.

Stepping across the threshold, vaguely thinking to pay his respects, he noticed Q's tall frame lounging in an armchair in one of the near corners of the room. Q's head rested in his big hand, his face concealed. Jean-Luc swallowed and walked toward him.

"Q," he said quietly, "I'm very sorry for your loss."

Q jerked his head up and stared at him blankly, as though forgetting that he had summoned him or even that his wife had died. "Picard," he breathed.

Standing so abruptly that Jean-Luc involuntarily took a step back, Q seemed, at full height and with some effort, to regain at least some of his usual pomposity. "Picard, I need your help."

The words were unexpected. " _My_ help?"

Leering down at Jean-Luc, Q resumed, with his typical lightning-fast speech. "Kyle Riker is going to arrest me—today. In fact, he may be on his way over here right now. The charges are the same trumped-up lies he used to arrest my wife."

Jean-Luc winced at the mention of Vash, lying only feet away from them, then stood still as Q began to pace.

"I'll defeat the charges, of course, but the legal proceedings will take me away from the regiment for an uncertain—but certain to be lengthened for as long as our grandstanding senator can manage—amount of time. And while I'm away, I need someone I can trust to command the regiment.

"That's you, Picard."

Q spun round in time to see Jean-Luc's face register surprise. "Me? Q, I hardly think—"

"Don't pretend, Picard. We don't have time for coy fake denials," Q scowled. "Let's just stipulate that you're the most qualified captain, despite only serving in a land-based military unit for a matter of months. If these men are going to stand any chance of returning home in one piece, it's going to be because of you. I'm promoting you to major and giving you my command until such time as I can rejoin you."

Jean-Luc shook his head. The decision made no sense. "There are other captains, who've served longer."

"Yes, yes, spare me the resumés. I know who fought in the Indian wars. Edward Jellico, the heavy-handed fixture, Ben Maxwell, as blood-thirsty as the best of them."

"Then, why me?" Jean-Luc automatically began to search for Q's angle. The man had done nothing that Jean-Luc had seen without some type of ulterior motive. Not knowing all the other captains as well as Q, he was at an analytical disadvantage. Nevertheless, whatever mischief the mercurial major was setting him up for, he had never known the man to express the slightest sentiment about the lives of his troops.

As if reading his mind, Q brandished another weapon. He ceased his near-constant movement and rested his hands on the back of a chair. Speaking more quietly, he said, "I wouldn't blame you if you thought I didn't care about the men under my command. But the truth is, I do care what happens to them. I want them to achieve glory on the battlefield and I want them to survive. I can't leave them under the command of a man who will make rash decisions based on a faulty comprehension of military strategy and zero analysis of the enemy."

Alarm bells reverberated through Jean-Luc's mind. The pressure and risks of taking control of an army regiment, despite his inexperience, plus commanding unfamiliar men, in unfamiliar territory, all signaled danger, for him and for the men of the regiment. Foremost, however, he realized that accepting this position would be inconsistent with his plan to spirit Wesley away and, eventually, find a way to escape himself and be reunited with Beverly. Pangs of guilt, because he was primarily worried about his personal situation, rather than the security of hundreds of men, shot through him. How could he even consider shirking such a monumental duty?

"I—I have to think about it," Jean-Luc managed.

Q spun around. _"Think_ about it? There's nothing to think about, Picard. I've promoted you and put you in charge of the regiment. It's an _order._ The paperwork is on its way to Virginia now."

Before Jean-Luc could muster a counter-argument, a rap on the door interrupted them.

"Yes?" Q called.

The butler entered. "'Scuse me, massah. Senator Riker is here to see you."

"I'm sure he is," Q said, while looking at Jean-Luc. He spared a quick glance over his shoulder at his wife, resting in her coffin.

The insufficient gesture reminded Jean-Luc of Vash. "Q, I am truly very sorry about your wife. If there's anything I can do . . . ."

Q's face tensed with the closest thing to emotion Jean-Luc had ever witnessed on it. "There is something you can do, Major Picard. Take care of my men." With a pat on Jean-Luc's shoulder, Q stepped away and addressed his butler. "I'll meet Senator Riker in the front parlor."

He exited just ahead of the nodding servant, leaving Jean-Luc alone in the room of death.

* * *

Too soon, Beverly was awakened by someone gently shaking her shoulder through the goose down blanket.

"Mom?"

"Mmmm," she mumbled as she drifted into wakefulness, smiling at her son's voice.

"Mom, I'm really sorry to wake you up, but it's kind of urgent." Wesley stood, his apologetic face softening the anger he anticipated that did not materialize.

Beverly sat up against the bed pillows. "I'm so glad to see you. Safe and sound, back home."

Now that she was awake and not upset with him, Wesley pulled a chair up beside her bed. "Mom, I need your advice."

" _My_ advice?" Beverly teased. "You're a man now. I thought you wouldn't need my advice any longer."

Wesley was used to his mother's joking manner. "No, that's orders, Mom. I don't have to follow your orders anymore. Advice is optional."

"Oh, I see." She sat up straighter. "What do you need advice about?"

Wesley inhaled then exhaled. "I want to ask Robin Lefler to marry me."

The smile on Beverly's face vanished. "Marry? Wesley, what are you thinking? With everything that's going on? You're in the army and Captain Picard is trying to get you to the north so that you can continue your studies!" Approaching panic, she sat up straight.

Wesley rolled his eyes. "Mom, I didn't forget there's a war going on."

Beverly raised and dropped her arms in disbelief. "Then, how are you going to get married?"

Wesley had clearly thought this through. "We'll get married while I'm on leave. I'll go back to the army and once I get away, I'll write to Robin and she can join me. It will be easier for her to travel, since she's a woman. We'll be together and out of danger."

"It's not easy for a woman to travel alone, even when there isn't a war going on. And, you're going to be studying. You won't be able to support a wife or a . . . ." She could not quite bring herself to say "family."

Her engineering son had an answer. "Robin will find work making dresses. And I'll try to find some way to make money at the university, sweeping floors or working in a lab, if I'm lucky. Mom, we'll make it work."

Beverly shook her head in disbelief, trying to select one from the many arguments she had against the teenagers' foolish plot.

The bedroom door was open and Will knocked on it lightly as he leaned into the room. "Beverly? Oh," he added, upon seeing Wesley, "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

The two Crushers exchanged a charged look. "No, sir," Wesley said, standing, "you're not interrupting. We were actually just finished with our conversation." He shot his mother a victorious glare as he left. She returned fire with an expression that said their discussion was far from finished.

Will watched him cross the threshold then turned to Beverly with an inquiring eyebrow.

She shook her head dismissively. "Young men. What do you need? Is something wrong?" Completely unembarrassed to be sitting in a bed talking with a man not her husband, Beverly lifted the blankets and swung her legs to the floor, ready to come to her patients' aid.

"No, nothing's wrong," Will assured her quickly. "It's just that . . . ."

"What?" Beverly slowly rose, growing more alarmed by Will's unwillingness to be frank.

"Well," he was blushing now, "it's just that we have a lot of questions, about the baby and . . . ."

Taking a relaxing breath, Beverly patting his arm affectionately. "Not to worry, Will. If you can handle a company full of young men, you'll have no trouble with one very tiny man. You just need to go through baby boot camp."

She led him across the hall, where that tiny man was fussing, trying to cry, on his mother's lap. Deanna looked up at the sound of them approaching. "Thank God, you're here, Beverly. I have no idea what to do!"

Beverly laughed, all thoughts of her own situation—Wesley, her baby, Jean-Luc—fading as she dove into the task of helping her good friends become acquainted with their son.

* * *

His nerves still jangling, as much as they ever did, from his unsettling encounter with Q and Vash's body, Jean-Luc eventually rode back home. He wanted Beverly's counsel about recent events, in addition to needing her emotionally and physically. No sooner had he dismounted and led his horse to the teenaged boy who worked as the groomer than Mr. Soong appeared from around the stable and waylaid him.

"Captain," Mr. Soong said urgently, "I'm concerned about the grape vines. As you know, the weather has been—"

"Mr. Soong," Jean-Luc stopped him with a hand held up, "I'm afraid I have urgent business to attend to and I won't be able to discuss the vines with you until tomorrow."

"But, sir, the—"

"One more day won't make a difference. Tomorrow morning, Mr. Soong." Jean-Luc stepped away to avoid further conversation.

And nearly walked into Worf.

"Captain!"

Jean-Luc backed up to put some space between the big man and him. "Worf, can we talk—"

Misunderstanding, Worf drew closer and lowered his deep voice to a conspiratorial level. "We did not make arrangements to send the passengers to the next station on the railroad."

Distracted by his entanglement with Miss Ro and distressed by his meeting with Q, Jean-Luc had forgotten about the escapees hiding in the tunnel since the middle of the night. Nothing had been resolved. "Worf, it's my opinion that it would be very dangerous to move them right now."

Worf's body language showed that he disagreed with this cautious approach.

"We'll get them on their way as soon as we can, but right now, there's too much going on, with the troops just getting back and Mrs. DeLancie's sudden death. We just don't know who's going to be out on the roads when."

"Then, perhaps, we should monitor the roads for a few nights." Appearing suddenly at Jean-Luc's elbow, Mr. Soong startled the older man. "See what's going on and who's going where?"

Recovering, Jean-Luc turned to Mr. Soong. "Yes, that's a very good idea. Go to town during the day and listen to what people are saying. That way, we'll have information and be better able to predict when it will be safe to move them."

"That will take days!" Worf protested.

The last thing Jean-Luc wanted was to start a debate. "Gentlemen, I don't see that we have any other choice, at least not today. Why don't we start observing today and we can sit down tomorrow, all of us, and make a plan?"

Worf did not appear happy with the compromise, but Mr. Soong seemed to accept it. "All right, we can do that." He wandered off and Jean-Luc sidestepped around Worf to leave the stable.

"Ah, Captain Picard, I presume?"

Jean-Luc looked across the yard, surprised to find a stout African man wearing a stylish new coat, hat and scarf ambling toward him with a polished walking stick. If he had not known better, from the man's confident posture, he would have assumed that the man owned the land around them. Curious, he nodded in response.

"Captain, I am Dathon, from the Ro side of the village, as it were. I've been looking forward to meeting you."

Jean-Luc nodded. "Likewise," he said as they shook hands. "I've heard a great deal about you from various colleagues of yours." In person, the man fit, even exceeded, Beverly's favorable description.

With no further prompting, Dathon began an eloquent story of life in the freedmen's village, describing how they had built a church and held regular services. How the volunteer building crew had worked on each family's house in turn until everyone had a new home. How all plots of land, although small, contained space for a family vegetable garden. Jean-Luc was readily drawn into the narrative, but then he remembered his purpose.

"I'm truly sorry to interrupt you, Dathon," Jean-Luc said politely, "but I have a prior engagement." His eyes flickered toward the house.

"Of course. I understand," Dathon said.

"Perhaps we could sit down tomorrow? I would like to hear much more about how the African residents have set up their new village."

Dathon smiled. He liked Captain Picard. Always priding himself on being a good judge of character, Dathon concluded that the Frenchman, for all his foreign ways, was a kind man, someone his people could trust.

"Tomorrow, then, captain." With a tip of his hat, Dathon turned and strode away.

His mission to find Beverly renewed, Jean-Luc stepped rather briskly through the back door and into the kitchen. Nodding to the kitchen staff, he hustled past piles of vegetables and loaves of freshly baked bread.

Guinan cornered him as he exited into the hall. "Captain?"

He sighed in exasperation. "Guinan, can whatever it is please wait until later?" His annoyance was obvious in his uncharacteristically sharp tone.

Guinan raised her thin eyebrows. "If it could have waited until later, then I would have come to speak with you later."

Of course, he admitted to himself. The bad timing of seemingly everyone else in the county could not be imputed to Guinan, who was not one to speak or act unnecessarily. "What is it?"

In response, Guinan led him into his study and closed the door behind him. She wasted no time, beginning to speak before he had even sat down behind his desk.

"I didn't say anything last night, because it was so late and it seemed to make sense, but you can't sleep here."

"What?"

"Gossip has it that you sleep with your _wife,_ Miss Ro, in her house."

His voice rose as he himself rose from his chair to face her. Nothing the house manager could have said could have made him more furious. "I don't care what the county gossips believe. This is none of their business. I'm staying here with my real wife, Beverly."

"Ssh!" To defuse the situation, Guinan crossed to his leather sofa, sat down and waited for him to back down enough to return to his desk.

After his ire subsided, he settled down to listen to the frustrating complications that she was apparently determined to lay before him.

Guinan did not disappoint him. "To the outside world, you're married to Ro Laren. And parts of that _outside_ world are going to be _inside_ this house for the next several days. Kate Pulaski and Lwaxanna Troi are coming back later today and they may be sleeping over again. Lwaxanna will certainly be here every day as long as her daughter is here. With all this excitement, Dr. Timicin will find a way to stick his nose into things happening here.

"Plus, don't you think Kyle Riker will find a reason to come by to talk to you, now that you're the biggest threat to him owning the whole county?"

Her sensible conclusions vexed him. He should have known that the women would be milling about, with Deanna here. He had not thought of Kyle wanting to co-opt him, but he should have. With Q out of the way, Jean-Luc was a major obstacle—he sighed at the unintentional pun, given his recent promotion—to Kyle's apparent land grabbing. If one considered that he could control Lwaxanna's property, due to Deanna and Will's marriage, and Alynna's property, due to their mysterious alliance, with Q's land, Kyle may have just amassed enormous power. Not only would Jean-Luc need to be wary of the senator, he probably would need to reach out to other landowners to form alliances. _Merde,_ what a tangled web Kyle weaved.

"And those aren't the only considerations," Guinan said calmly.

Jean-Luc looked up from his desk, where his eyes had wandered during his musing. "There's more?"

"Nothing as sinister. Just that there are people living in Miss Ro's house that would expect you to be there with her."

"People?" What else had gone on in his absence, Jean-Luc wondered.

"Ben stays in the house and the O'Brien family moved in there. I'm sure Miles O'Brien will be looking for you at dinner. And, don't forget, Beverly's been moved in and living with Marie for a long time."

"Only since—"

"No one would expect you to live in the same house as Beverly. While we have all these people roaming around, you're going to have to stay with Miss Ro."

"Guinan," Jean-Luc pleaded, "since I've come home, I've been up all night, I've barely laid eyes on my wife, I've learned of my neighbor's death, I've had an argument with my pretend wife, I've been promoted in an army in which I do not belong, and I've heard from all manner of people who need to discuss a problem with me. May I please, _please,_ just have some time alone with Beverly?"

Guinan shrugged. "Probably."

"Probably?"

"But you have to be very careful. A lot of people's lives depend on you maintaining this secret."

A knock on the door interrupted them.

"Yes?" Jean-Luc spat.

The door opened and Marie's smile radiated an affection that did not quite reach the occupants of the room. "I'm sorry to intrude . . . ," she hinted.

After an uncomfortable pause, Jean-Luc uttered the expected assurance, "No, it's no trouble at all," though the interruption by yet another person demanding his time threatened his patience, if not, he worried, his sanity. He tried to bend his mouth into a friendly grin for his sister-in-law, but the effort was obvious and unsuccessful. "What can I do for you, Marie?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Jean-Luc. I'm actually looking for Guinan, if you can spare her."

"Oh." His phony grin fell as he was hit by a momentary feeling of slight at being less important to Marie than Guinan. That oddity, however, was quickly offset by his relief at not being needed by anyone else on his plantation.

Guinan and he looked at one another. "I think we're done now," Guinan said, despite the fact that it was he who had been asked the question.

"I agree," Jean-Luc assented.

* * *

Sarjenka held Molly O'Brien's hand during the brief operation. Following sternly delivered instructions, Miles, Jr. sat silently at his sister's feet. After splashing some alcohol on the small girl's finger—more for a placebo effect than any actual numbing—Beverly pinched the top of the splinter with tweezers and carefully extracted it. Her patient did not cry out, but the tears that escaped her eyes testified to the pain she had felt.

"Is that it?" Sarjenka asked.

"Yes," Beverly answered with a smile. "Molly, you were very brave." She rubbed the girl's back.

"Did it hurt, Molly?" Miles, Jr. asked.

Molly nodded, not yet able to talk.

"It's okay, Molly," Sarjenka said. "We won't go up in the hayloft any more, so you won't get another splinter."

Another nod.

Miles, Jr. looked upset at the prospect of no longer playing in the loft, but he wisely said nothing. Whether out of consideration for his sister's injury or still smarting from Beverly's rebuke that he must remain quiet and still during an operation could not be discerned.

Beverly watched the children as she cleaned the tweezers with more alcohol, enjoying their easy camaraderie. "I have an idea," she said. She leaned down to Molly's eye level and wrapped her arm around the girl. "Why don't you three go to the kitchen, tell Guinan that I just operated on Molly and that I said all of you deserve a treat for being brave and helpful?"

Miles, Jr. perked up.

"Can we really get a treat, Dr. Crusher?" Molly asked tearfully.

Beverly kissed the top of her head. "Absolutely. Sarjenka, I'm putting you in charge of securing the treats."

The older girl hopped off the loveseat immediately. "I can do it. I'm not afraid of Guinan." Her words seemed more asserted to convince herself than anyone else. She took Molly's hand.

"Good," Beverly said. "Go on, now, and enjoy your treats. And Happy New Year!"

Giggles and cries of happy new year echoed down the hall as the children raced off toward the kitchen to find Guinan. Beverly watched them leave and reflected that, one day, hopefully, her child would be laughing and playing in these very rooms.

Soft hands on her shoulders made Beverly jump. She turned to see Marie peering down at her as though she could read her mind.

"It's so nice to have children here again, isn't it?" Marie asked.

Beverly would not have broached the subject of children with Marie, but she was glad to hear her friend enjoying the little ones without the sadness of missing René in her voice.

"Yes, it is." Beverly squeezed Marie's hand.

"And, soon enough, there'll be another little Picard!" Marie sounded thrilled.

Beverly gasped. "How did you know?"

"Women my age have seen pregnancy so many times, the signs are obvious. You've been so tired, you were nauseous on several mornings, and, frankly, Beverly, you've been glowing."

"I have?"

"Most certainly! Now, I have a new year's treat for you." Marie's eyes sparkled with mischief.

"For me?"

"Yes." Marie circled around the loveseat and, still holding Beverly's hand, pulled her up. "Come with me."

Walking through the house, Beverly craned to spot Jean-Luc. She had not seen him since his disagreement with Miss Ro near the garden in the morning. Now, mid-afternoon, after her nap, her worrisome talk with Wesley, a parenting class for Deanna and Will and her being summoned frantically by the children, she wondered where he had gone. Why was he not searching for her? She had thought they would have found each other by now, but he was nowhere to be seen.

At the door of her bedroom—her real bedroom, Jean-Luc's room—Marie showed her a blazing fire in the fireplace and, set close enough for its occupant to feel the heat, the large metal bath tub. The other rooms upstairs were quiet, with all the guests gone and the Riker family sleeping.

While the young kitchen helpers filled the tub with hot water, Marie took Beverly into her own bedroom to look over her wide assortment of bath products from Paris. Beverly chose lavender bath oil and bubble bath, along with rose-scented shampoo and soap. Marie added a body oil and a powder, plus a soft pink bathrobe that she insisted Beverly don. "I'll go add the bubble bath to the water and make sure everything you need is right next to the tub. You go on and change out of those clothes and into the robe. We're going to pamper you, my dear."

"Me?" Beverly was unused to such attention and beauty products. "I thought the new mother should be pampered."

Marie laughed. "Oh, Deanna will be pampered. Don't worry. I've already spoken to Lwaxanna. First, we take care of you, then Deanna."

Beverly shook her head. "I still don't see how I deserve all this—"

"Ssh. Don't talk that way. You deserve all this and more," Marie shushed her. "All women do." With that edict, she left Beverly to undress and pin her hair up.

Minutes later, the bath was ready. Having made sure the upstairs hallway was empty, Marie snuck Beverly into Jean-Luc's and her bedroom, which they had yet to share as husband and wife, to find the metal bathtub full of bubbles, brimming close to the warmth of the fireplace.

Beverly hastily removed Marie's bathrobe and climbed into the tub. "Mmmm," she said without realizing it. The hot water felt good on her strained muscles and she sank slowly into the foam. A small table next to the tub held Marie's bath products and a pitcher of water, which, as she herself had instructed Guinan in the past, was a precaution to fend off dehydration for those who linger in baths. Beverly had given the advice with Marie in mind, as she herself did not tend to dawdle while bathing, but today, according to Marie's instructions, was different. A plate with a few small pieces of cake sat next to the pitcher, making Beverly laugh at the decadence. She leaned back and relaxed, with her head resting on a rolled up towel along the tub's edge and her eyes closed.


	58. Chapter 58

Many apologies for taking so long to post. This chapter is rated "Mmmmm" - I hope you enjoy it. Happiness, Liz

* * *

Too soon, Beverly's reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door.

So much for lingering in the bath, she thought. She assumed the person intruding on her peace was Guinan, come to tell her that someone needed her somewhere. With a loud sigh, but keeping her eyes closed, she called out, "Come in."

The door creaked open. At first, no one spoke, then . . . .

"That sounds like a wonderful idea. I think I will."

Beverly gasped, opened her eyes and sat up at the sound of his unmistakable voice. "Jean-Luc!"

Jean-Luc locked the door and stood frozen, taking in the glorious spectacle. Beverly, her hair piled wispily on top of her head, her bare shoulders peeking out of the bubbles, her mouth forming a surprised, but suggestive "O" shape. Breathing was suddenly difficult and his pants felt uncomfortably tight around the bulge in his crotch. The last hours had been agony. He had finally made it home, so close to her, but unable to be with her. Now, finally . . . .

"Oooh . . . ." All Beverly's emotions—her happiness, her longing for her husband, her desire, and even a twinge of her old nervousness at the prospect of intimacy—were contained in that moan. Plus, she was quite surprised to have someone walk into the room while she was bathing. "I'm taking a bath," she blushed.

He relaxed and smiled. "I see. I mean it. I'm going to join you."

"Join me? In the tub?" Though incredibly stimulated, Beverly was perplexed.

With the speed of Hermes, Jean-Luc was beside the tub, kneeling down and taking her face in his strong hands. She breathed in his masculine scent and began to feel dizzy as he gazed deeply into her eyes. She knew he was taking his time, enjoying the sight of her, committing the moment to memory, and she did the same. Lowering her eyes away from his perfect face, she caught a glimpse of his smooth chest, beneath his white shirt. She focused on his narrow waist, his slim legs, and the outline of his arousal under his pants.

He leaned closer to her and slowly, his lips met hers. They both moaned as their tongues found each other and began their sensual coupling. Jean-Luc held Beverly's face in his hands, his thumbs tracing along the smooth angles of her cheekbones and his fingertips stretching into her soft hair. With her wet and sudsy hands, Beverly clutched the back of his head. Their desire built as they plundered each other's mouths.

Like a man possessed, Jean-Luc stood and began to rip off his clothing. The buttons on his sleeves popped off as he yanked his arms out. He hopped on first one leg, then the other, to remove his boots and wildly heaved them across the room once each foot was freed. In his haste, the buttons on his pants were a challenge, until Beverly beckoned him toward her with a soapy, outstretched arm.

In the few short moments since he had announced his intention and stepped into the bedroom, Beverly had overcome her shock at the prospect of Jean-Luc climbing into the bathtub with her. Assuming that European couples must bathe together frequently, she shed her American reservations once again to succumb to her body's yearning. Her fuller breasts rose with her quickened breaths as she watched him undress. His eyes on her, he struggled to unbutton his pants and, without thinking, Beverly reached for him.

With a surgeon's calm hands, Beverly nimbly undid his pants as Jean-Luc's breathing grew ragged above her. His fingers slid into her hair and, when his liberated erection finally jumped out of his undergarments, and slid into Beverly's warm, inviting mouth, he held her head against his crotch and closed his eyes in ecstasy.

"Aaaaah," he moaned, throwing his head back.

Finding herself so close to his organ that brought her such pleasure, Beverly had eagerly taken him into her mouth, hungry for his touch, his taste. His slick head, soft foreskin and rock-hard length. As he held her in place, her tongue licked him, prompting more moans. Her wet arms reached around him and lowered his pants and underwear to his ankles, then traveled up his muscular legs to squeeze his round bottom. The pressure caused him to jerk forward, farther into her throat, but he inched back. Alarmed at the thought that he might pull out of her mouth completely, she clamped down on him and squeezed his bottom again, drawing him into her.

"Aaaaaah." Jean-Luc's hips began to move, forward and back, sliding himself in and out, in and out, of Beverly's mouth as she tightly grasped him. He looked down to see her beautiful lips on his cock, her slender arms locking his body in place, her breasts pushed against the metal of the tub. Beneath the bubbles in the bath, the rest of her body was hidden, a mystery for him to discover.

"No . . . wait . . . unh." On the edge, Jean-Luc tried meekly to stop the wonderful feelings that threatened to send him too quickly into ecstasy.

But, Beverly, ravenous, was determined to keep him in her mouth until she tasted the hot, salty flow of his pleasure. She kneaded her fingers into the flesh of his bottom, keeping him close to her. When he stopped moving, she picked up the rhythm, sliding her mouth up and down his swollen, red manhood. His tip reached the back of her throat. Her tongue twirled around the shaft. She began to suck him, as if that would bring him closer to her.

Her tongue licking him, her mouth tightening around him did bring Jean-Luc closer—to orgasm. His wife was so passionate, so furious in her arousal. Each time her fingers dug into his backside, sensations shot straight to his cock, which she was sucking and lavishing with her tongue. Unsure how he remained on his feet, he alternately stared at her, which excited him even more, and threw his head back in enjoyment, panting and moaning, "Ah, ah, ah."

Beverly shifted in the tub and suddenly her wet breasts, bigger and fuller than he remembered, bounced free of the tub, covered in bubbles. He reached down into the suds, grabbed them and fondled them, not lightly. She gasped, even with her mouth full, and her body jerked, lifting her breasts into his hands even more.

She closed her eyes, so as to better experience the heavenly feeling of his hands on her breasts. As he handled them, roughly, fervently, she felt the current of his electricity and moved her head, her mouth, up and down his length faster. He was so excited and his arousal spurred her on. When he finally pinched her wanting nubs, she cried out and, simultaneously, clamped down on his hardness and sucked on his head, pinning him in her arms and sinking her fingernails deeply into his fleshy backside.

That was it. An ecstasy he had never felt before spread from his loins, as his wife claimed his manhood completely. "Aaaaaaannh!"

He grabbed the back of Beverly's head to hold her still as he exploded in her mouth, every inch of him sensitive to the feel of her lips at his base, her tongue licking his shaft, then wrapping around his sensitive head. His other hand still clutched her breast and he worried his grip was too hard. Finally, his legs gave out and he knelt, pulling out of her mouth and collapsing on her shoulders, breathing fast.

Beverly's arms wrapped around Jean-Luc's shoulders, and the fingers of one hand gently traveled through his short hair. As he caught his breath, she moved her hand along his bald head and as she stroked his smooth skin, she realized how stimulating that could be. How good it would feel to touch him like this, she thought while he—

—As though reading her mind, Jean-Luc began to kiss, then lick, then suck the wet skin of her shoulder as the lavender scent of the bubble bath filled his senses. He moved his warm mouth along her shoulder to her neck, where his kisses, as he knew they would, elicited soft gasps of pleasure.

"Ooooh." Beverly tilted her head to give him access to her entire neck, which he immediately took advantage of. It felt as if the tingling he caused on her neck was directly connected to her womanhood. His hand, in her hair, on the other side of her, turned her head so that he could kiss her mouth. Her breasts ached for his touch and, again, as though his mind were linked to hers, he complied. More softly this time, he took her breasts in his hands and circled her hard nipples with his palms. She moaned, wanting more. His hot lips left her mouth, feathered across her cheek and ear, then tugged on her earlobe, before descending to slowly, torturously, breathe against, blow on, fleetingly lick, then finally suck one of her rosebuds.

Beverly held the back of his head down, to prevent him from moving away. As she had imagined, she stroked the top of his head, which seemed to inspire him. He moved to her other breast, his hand replacing his mouth, sucking one hard nipple as he pinched the other, and she squirmed in the bath, feeling her womanly juices flowing into the luxurious water, as her most intimate part yearned for his touch.

But, this time, instead of doing as she silently bid, he abruptly stopped and leaned away from her.

"Wha—"

Before she could ask, Jean-Luc stood, removed the rest of his clothing, and, his waning erection pointing at her, climbed into the tub opposite her. "Aaah," he said with a smile, amidst the soothing warm water and the silky bubbles. "Much better."

She felt his feet slide along her legs to her hips. His legs rested against hers as the bottom half of his body disappeared into the bubbles.

"Come here."

His open arms beckoned her.

She began to slide along the bottom of the tub toward him. He took her shoulders and turned her around so that she could settle in against his chest. "Mmm," they both sighed contentedly.

Spying the table Marie had arranged, Jean-Luc asked, "What's this?"

Before Beverly could answer, he grabbed the bottle of bath oil and poured some into his hand. He set the bottle down and rubbed his hands together before returning them to Beverly's waiting mounds.

"Aaah," she moaned. The oil felt warm on her skin and Jean-Luc's hands spreading it all over her breasts was a completely new and erotic sensation for her. She pressed her head into his collarbone as her chest arched up into his hands, instantly addicted to the tantalizing feeling that made her submerged womanhood cry out with want. Panting and moaning, Beverly wanted to stay in this moment of sublime torture forever. "Yes," she sighed, signaling for Jean-Luc to continue.

Continue he did. He retrieved the bottle again and poured oil directly on the tops of her breasts, the fullness of them arousing him. When his hands returned to caress her, Beverly closed her eyes and tried to keep breathing. The heat built up inside her as his kneading hands fondled her. She twitched her hips, making waves in the water. The generous layer of bubbles shifted back and forth, away from, then toward the couple.

Jean-Luc crossed her body with his right arm so that he could pinch her left nipple and rub against her right one. His left hand snuck into the bubbles and teased along her hip and the outside of her leg. In response, Beverly bent her leg, allowing him to travel all the way to her knee. He paused to palm her kneecap, which caused her to unexpectedly twist her leg and hips in delight. Finally, his hand trailed along the inside of her thigh, coaxing her hips to move in small, frantic circles of anticipation.

"Oh, yes," she breathed.

He lowered his head to her exposed neck and kissed and sucked her perfect creamy skin as his fingers reached their sacred destination. Beverly cried out again as Jean-Luc's fingers gently travelled around her center.

Surrounded by water, her flower was ready for his touch. His fingers circled her petals and she felt his breathing become quicker. She felt some of the oil on his fingertips, warm, pressing against the folds of her womanhood, creating sensations that thrilled her, but left her needing more. As he continued, applying more pressure and speed, around and around the entrance to her essence, breathing became very difficult for her also.

All of a sudden, Jean-Luc did exactly what Beverly's body was craving: his finger plunged into her while his thumb simultaneously flicked back and forth across the bud at the top of her flower. She felt his presence, his adoring, skillful hands, on her breasts and nipples, on her secret nub and deep inside her. She felt his tongue glide along her neck and the sensations were everywhere at once. He added a second digit to his exploration, tentatively at first, then deeply, when he saw her response—an excited gasp and a push of her hips into his skillful fingers.

The waves in the water lapped against the sides of the tub as Beverly ground into Jean-Luc's hand. He was arousing her passion everywhere that she needed to feel him, all at once—her neck, her nipples, the inside of her. All reverberated with his sensuality, his heat, his strength. The softness of his lips, the fullness of his fingers. Suddenly, Beverly lost all sense of the here and now as her entire body was overtaken by a wave of pleasure that rippled from her center outward till her toes and fingers tingled with the joy that was Jean-Luc.

Her adoring husband kept his right arm pressed against her chest and held her as her body convulsed.

"Oh, oh, Jean-Luc . . . ." She loved the feel of his body against hers—an intimacy she had missed for months. Although she had known he would return some day, their separation had begun to feel like the beginning of forever. But he was here now and they were together, as, Beverly was certain, they were meant to be.

She closed her eyes and held his arm against her. Her other hand floated to rest on his knee, which, when he had bent his leg, was peeking out of the water and just visible through the bubbles.

Jean-Luc felt wholly relaxed and deliriously happy with his wife. Smiling, his face explored her hair and kissed the top of her head. Everything was perfect when he was with Beverly, he thought, whether they were making love or doing something else. Every moment just felt like . . . exactly what he wanted. Their more than occasional arguments, he knew, mattered not. What mattered was their connection, physical, emotional, mental, and—

"Water?" Beverly asked breathily.

At first, her question confused Jean-Luc, because they were sitting in water. Did she want to get out? Did she want him to splash it on her? The latter seemed likely and he raised his hand out of the bubbles to oblige. Then, he spied the water pitched on the table, said, "ah," and reached out to pour her a glass.

Beverly felt herself return to earth enough to hold on to the glass and drink the cool water. She felt light-headed but was not sure if that was due to the heat of the bath, her condition or the incredible physical experience that had just carried her beyond to another realm of consciousness. She finished the water and took a piece of cake. She felt Jean-Luc's chest move as he chuckled. Smiling, she turned and shoved the cake into his mouth.

"Mmm," he said between chews and laughs. "This is delicious."

"Guinan's new year's cakes."

He snapped another bite from the pastry in her hand and she giggled and took another.

As she finished the cake, Jean-Luc spoke into her ear, tickling and exciting her, "May I wash your hair?"

She looked at him, surprised again. Seeing the lust in his eyes, she nodded, entranced by the sensual idea. She reached up and removed the comb from her hair to let her red tresses tumble free, falling on to her back and his chest, the tips of them landing on the bubbles.

He opened the ornate green glass bottle of shampoo, but then paused. "We'll have to get your hair wet first."

She twisted to look at him and raised an eyebrow. Smiling back at her, he set down the shampoo bottle, placed his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her down into the bubbles. Beverly stopped laughing just in time to hold her breath. She sank into the soothing lavender water and her head came to rest on Jean-Luc's soft manhood. She turned her head back and forth to make sure all of her hair got wet and she felt him jerk underneath her.

Jean-Luc slid his hands under Beverly's arms and lifted her until she rose out of the water and the bubbles like a red-haired mermaid, causing a stirring in him unlike any other woman's effect, ever. Her eyes were closed and the water on her face glistened in the flickers of the fire and candles. Her wet hair hung down her back. She opened her azure eyes and he beheld her otherworldly beauty.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered.

" _You_ are so beautiful," she said in reply.

Beverly's hand touched his cheek and he leaned into her palm, closing his eyes. In that moment, he looked so tender, so gentle. He was strong enough to carry her in his arms, he could run for miles with his soldier gear, and his voice frightened men and animals alike. But, right now, his body was wet and soft and hers. She kissed him with all the love she felt, holding his cheek and snaking her other arm around his shoulder. Jean-Luc felt his desire building once again.

Before he could quench his yearning, however, he was determined to prolong their enjoyment. He broke away from his wife's kiss, uttered, "Mmmmmm," as his lips trailed along her check and he leaned into her, reaching for the shampoo bottle.

Jean-Luc poured a generous amount of the rose-scented liquid into his hands and scooped her hair up on either side of her head. Her hair felt soft as he swirled it around her head. He heard her sigh as she leaned back into him.

The feel of his fingers in her hair, gently massaging, was a seductive intimacy. "Mmmmm," Beverly moaned as she relaxed into his body and rested her head on his shoulder. He laughed as wisps of shampoo flew into his face. Realizing what she had done, Beverly turned her head and wiped suds off his chin, then kissed it. "I'm so happy that you're home. I missed you so much."

Before he could say anything, she sat up enough to kiss him. And, again, they were lost in each other's embrace, in each other's touch, quenching their thirst after months in the desert of separation. Without leaving her lips, Jean-Luc reached for the soap, lathered his hands and began to wash her body.

First, the smooth skin of her back. Next, he travelled over her shoulders, neck and lovely arms. With more soap, he moved on to her shining, oily mounds and Beverly sighed, as his loving caresses spread the rose-scented soapsuds all over her, bringing yet another new sensation. He lingered there, as she wanted him to, and their kisses said all that mere words could not. Taking the soap, and covering her hands with its perfumed lather, Beverly washed his chest, his shoulders and his arms, taking her time to feel his hard muscles, bulging underneath his warm skin. Breaking their kiss and turning her around again, he dipped a hand into the bubbles and lifted one of her slender legs out into the cool air.

"Your legs are stunning," he whispered into her hair, as he ran the bar of soap down then back up her left leg, making her laugh.

With a hand full of bubbles and soap suds, he began to massage her foot. Reminded of the night in Will's tent, when his titillating foot massage had nearly caused her to climax, Beverly moaned in his arms. Sad when he finished, she silently rejoiced when he repeated his sensual kneading with her other foot. When he was done, Beverly felt perfectly relaxed, yet extraordinarily excited at the same time.

Beverly sought to return the favor. She leaned toward the table and grabbed the bath oil and another piece of cake. Smiling, she took a bite of the treat, then pushed the rest of it into Jean-Luc's mouth, allowing him to close his lips around her fingers seductively. While he chewed, she poured oil onto his shoulders and chest. As it flowed down, into the bubbles, she caught it in the cup of her palm and spread it around: through his chest hair, imitating his touches by palming his nipples—which made him gasp and then under his arms. She retraced the steps she had taken with the soap, caressing his shoulders, pouring more oil, then slithering down his arms, squeezing his hard biceps. To reach his back, she slid closer to him and he helped her into his lap by separating her legs and moving them to either side of him. Beverly immediately felt thrillingly exposed, her sex edging toward his . . . .

. . . now solid hardness, which her movement trapped between their abdomens. She drizzled more oil down his back and luxuriated in caressing his muscular form. As she reached around him, her stomach and breasts pressed against him and she rubbed her nipples in the warm oil on his chest.

The look of her, covered in shampoo, bubbles, water and oil, and the feel of her, hot against his skin, nearly drove him to insanity. He pushed her against his demanding erection and the friction from their bodies heated them, even as the bath water cooled. His hands slipped from her bubbled-covered waist to her submerged bottom, which he squeezed. He felt his desire building and knew he could not wait much longer.

His hands clutching her flesh made Beverly want to do the same to him. She reached for him blindly under the bubbles, but, unseeing, she missed her goal.

"Aaaaaaaah!" His head rolled backward and he closed his eyes.

Beverly looked up, not entirely sure what she had done or what his response meant.

Jean-Luc recovered enough to look at her. "Please, do that again."

"You mean . . . ?" She hesitantly slid her hand underneath him again, cupping the soft sacs under his manhood and making him both jump up and settle back into her palm for more. His excitement spurred her on to gently stroke them more. Her mouth opened in anticipation as she watched Jean-Luc lie back against the tub, with eyes closed, emitting small sounds.

She felt his cock twitch and she instinctively dropped her other hand into the bubbles to seek it. When her warm, oily fingers closed around it, and began to slide up and down him, while her other hand continued to tickle his sacs, Jean-Luc called out loudly, then could only pant.

"Yes . . . oh . . . yes," he breathed out.

He opened his eyes and watched her pleasuring him, with desire in her eyes. Billowy shampoo in her wet hair, her shining, round breasts, bouncing on the bubbles. He leaned forward and took a breast into his mouth.

"Aaaaaaah," Beverly moaned as Jean-Luc sucked first one, then the other nipple. His mouth and his tongue worked feverishly and his passion nearly overwhelmed her.

All of a sudden, he stopped, looked up at her and said, "We have to rinse you."

"What?"

Before she knew what was happening, Jean-Luc was embracing and kissing her . . . then leaning her backward into the bubbles. Still kissing, the two of them plunged into the water, where they stayed for several seconds, breathing in only each other.

When Jean-Luc raised them out, he lifted Beverly up, with her breasts in his face and her curls against his stomach. He slowly lowered her and they both gasped as her sensitive flower met his inflamed manhood. Her hands on his shoulders, she sank down the rest of the way, feeling him slide into her inch by inch.

"Aaaaaah," Jean-Luc moaned.

She closed her eyes, panting again, as he filled her and she felt complete. She sat still on top of him and he held her in place.

He just wanted to stay in this moment, feeling her surround him, gazing into her beautiful face, touching her wet, hot body.

"I love you," he whispered ardently.

She felt the familiar tingling radiating from her core, but amplified, more powerful, and urging her on. Possessed by a passion greater than any she had ever felt before, she gripped Jean-Luc, causing him to cry out, and began to move her hips back and forth into him, barely aware of the water splashing out of the tub and on to the bedroom floor.

"I love you," she cried.

They both felt their desire burning as their bodies merged in a fast, heated rhythm. Yet, the constraints of the tub and the water held them back from the climax they both hoped to reach together.

Suddenly, Jean-Luc stopped her by holding her bottom in place against him. Before she could ask him what he was doing, he pressed her to him with one arm and, pushing up with his hand on the edge of the tub, he began to stand up, still inside her. Beverly held on tightly, with her legs and arms wrapped around his body.

"What . . . ?" She managed, the question in her eyes.

Enthralled by the sight of her shining pink skin, soap bubbles hiding her breasts, and the warm feel of her surrounding him, Jean-Luc could not speak. Holding tightly to the soft flesh of her bottom, he smiled and stepped gingerly out of the tub, leg by leg, loving the worried expression that crossed Beverly's face and the surprised "ohs" she made with each of his awkward moves. He walked over to the bed and gently laid her down, on top of the down quilt.

Before she could protest that they would get all the bedding wet, he slid her along the bed and climbed on top of her, never leaving the sanctuary of her body. As they lay on the soft expanse, cross-wise, he began to move, slowly, out and in, out and in.

The colder air outside the bath made Beverly's nipples harden and peek through the remnants of the bubbles. He took her breasts in his hands and fondled them urgently. Beverly was lost in the sensations of his hands caressing her breasts as his manhood caressed her inside, the feel of him sliding in and out, rubbing against her and carrying her toward her peak. Small sounds, "ah, ah," slipped from her mouth as her head rolled from side to side on the quilt. She felt her ecstasy approaching as she beheld his taut, oiled body in the candle- and firelight.

She felt so good around him, his pace quickened, as each push into her warmth and snugness stroked his throbbing manhood. Seeing her lying there before him, moaning in the pleasure he was giving her, her writhing and tightening around him as though she could make him a part of her body, Jean-Luc felt his ability to moderate his movements ebbing.

"Beverly," he begged, "Beverly . . . ." He picked up the pace of his thrusts, unable to control himself and desperately needing his release. He slid his hands to the pillow, on either side of her face and fell on top of her. His hips pounded into her and he felt tears sting his eyes.

Reacting to his furious loving, she lifted her hips off the bed, as if to move into him with equal passion. Once she had positioned herself at a different angle, to her surprise, he was able to thrust deeper into her. They both felt the change, physically and emotionally, and its magnitude became another bond in their powerful connection.

"Beverly!" His arms closed around her shoulders in a tight embrace as he shuddered in his long-needed release.

"Aaaaah!" she screamed, her arms across his lower back, pinning him to her as her hips ground into his, delivering wave after wave of ecstasy.

Finally, she stopped moving and eased the bottom halves of their bodies on to the bed. They lay together, joined, struggling for breath and then kissing each other once again. Her feet wrapped around his legs and her hands crept up to rest, one on his shoulder and the other on the back of his head. He buried his face in her neck, his quiet tears of happiness mixing with the sweat, oil and water.

"Yes, yes," she whispered as her heart rate began to calm and his breath warmed her neck.

"Mmmmmm," he mumbled.

"Jean-Luc?"

"Yes?"

"Welcome home."


	59. Chapter 59

Tending the fire, Jean-Luc began to reconsider his impulsive decision to do so without the benefit of clothing, worried, now that he stood before the crackling flames, that an errant ember might fly out and seriously injure his favorite part of his body. He had carefully added a fresh log and now he poked at it in the hearth from as far a distance as possible. Satisfied that the flames were growing, he set down the poker, picked up the cake plate and water glass and returned to the bed, where Beverly had slipped underneath the covers. He hurried to join her.

They partook of the holiday treat and washed it down with the shared water glass. Laughing and kissing, they lay down next to each other on the spacious, comfortable mattress. Rolling on to his side and propping his head up with his elbow, Jean-Luc smiled down at Beverly.

"We have much more space now, in our bed," he said. "What luxury compared to army accommodations."

"Our bed," Beverly repeated. She turned on her side, facing him, and wrapped an arm and leg around him. "Our bed, our house, and we're finally here together."

Guinan's words of caution rang in his ears, but he did not want to dampen the mood by sharing them just now, while they still wore the glow of their lovemaking. He planned to enjoy every second with Beverly before having to sneak off to Miss Ro's house for the night.

Now was the moment, Beverly thought. Her heart hoped that he would be happy to learn about the baby, yet . . . . She still did not really know if he wanted children. She did not doubt his love for her or his eagerness to prove it, as he had just shown, but raising children was a completely different life, full of activities far different from making love in a bathtub. Would he see the baby as an inconvenience, an obstacle, a burden?

"Jean-Luc, there's something I have to tell you," she said quietly.

He nodded, still enthralled by her beauty and their shared ecstasy, completely unaware of the significance of her pending announcement. "I have something to tell you as well. But, I don't want you to catch a cold." He moved closer to her and snuggled her against his body, with her damp hair tucked under his chin.

Against his chest, Beverly closed her eyes, feeling protected and loved. She lingered for a moment, as his hands rubbed her arms to generate warmth, now that the heat of their lust was fading. Everything was perfect, just the two of them. Would he think everything was perfect with the addition of a baby? His soothing touches almost lulled her to sleep. Beverly fought her fatigue and, as much as she wanted to stay where she was, she lifted her head and settled on the pillow, facing her husband, who looked at her so lovingly.

She kissed him. How could she not? He was so solicitous of her and he looked so magnificent, his body glistening with the oil and his face so relaxed and blissful. Although he was, in nearly every important way, more worldly than she, Beverly knew that the world of parenthood was, to him, a completely foreign land. But, it was one she had navigated and she was eager to guide him over its hills and through its valleys. Tears formed in her eyes as she realized that she had never thought she would bear another child, never thought she would find a man to father her child.

Beverly took Jean-Luc's face in her hands and looked into his loving eyes, preparing to say the words that would change their lives.

"Jean-Luc, I love you so much and . . . ."

"I love you," he interrupted.

"And . . . I'm going to have a baby."

She held her breath.

He stared at her, but did not say anything.

She felt her heart drop.

His heart had only just stopped racing from their passionate lovemaking, and now Jean-Luc felt as though something, or someone, had tugged on it. He did not want to say anything, rather, he wanted to remain silent to enjoy the magical words his wife had just said to him. Gazing into Beverly's beautiful eyes, as blue as paradise, he had heard her say the most wonderful words—words that he had thought would never be spoken to him.

"Jean-Luc?" When her husband did not respond right away, Beverly began to worry. She searched his face for signs of his reaction and saw tears leak out of his eyes. Was he sad or happy? Her brow wrinkled.

He leaned toward her and kissed the crease in her forehead. "Beverly," he croaked, "I-I had thought it was too late for me. I had not hoped to imagine this, this could happen . . . ." A lump in his throat stopped him from speaking.

"Then," she whispered hesitantly, "you're happy about it?"

The tears embarked on their journey down his cheeks. "I am . . . much more than happy. I am so moved, so thrilled . . . ." He kissed her, then stopped. Jean-Luc was surprised to find himself crying.

Beverly lowered her arms and embraced him. "It will be all right," was all she could think of to say. She held him, loving him more than she ever had. Amazed that her husband contained such strength, yet such tenderness.

Jean-Luc lifted his head off her shoulder. "When?"

She smiled. "Early July."

"July," he repeated, in awe. A magical time in the distance, but not too far away, not after a lifetime lived without a child or a wife to be the mother of his child. Lying here today, he had no idea, of course, where he would be in July, but he prayed that the stars would align to bring him to Beverly's side. With his thumb, he gently touched her face, so soft, and her lips, so full. With his other hand, he traced the outline of her gorgeous body, from her shoulder, down her arm to her shapely hip. His hand traversed her flat stomach, where she stopped it and held it in place.

She kissed him through her smile. "That's where our baby is. But he—or she—is very small."

He moved the covers so that he could look at her stomach. As far as he could tell, her body looked as it always had.

Beverly wanted to laugh, but she held back and just smiled at the top of Jean-Luc's head. "My stomach hasn't really expanded yet, but it will soon. My breasts have gotten a bit bigger."

Jean-Luc's head snapped up abruptly to study a part of her body to which he had given so much attention and realized that it was not a trick of the bubble bath or her excitement at seeing him that had made her breasts appear larger.

"I, uh, I had noticed that," he admitted.

"Here." She returned his hand to her abdomen and pressed it into her flesh, where it sank only slightly, stopped by—"Do you feel how hard that is?"

He nodded.

"That's where the baby is growing."

The baby— _our baby—_ he thought, not quite used to the idea. Jean-Luc had never in his life fainted, thus he had no point of comparison, but he felt vaguely as though, if he had been standing up, he would have dropped to the ground with the dizzying understanding that Beverly's and his love had created a tiny baby within her body and that they were going to become parents.

It had only been meeting and falling in love with Beverly that had awakened such desires in him, after a solitary lifetime. He remembered how he had made the horrible decision to abandon their blossoming relationship at the Troi barbecue, how he had longed for Beverly to be his wife and to bear his children, and how impossibly distant those dreams had felt. Now, a new life filled with love lay before him, quite literally, in the form of his pregnant wife.

As he pondered this new adventure, his hand began to make circles on her skin, over her womb. _"Mon enfant,"_ he whispered. Then, looking into Beverly's adoring eyes, _"Mere de mon enfant."_

The wonder and love she saw in his eyes made tears pool in hers. _"Pere de mon enfant,"_ she whispered.

Jean-Luc could do nothing but kiss her sensuous lips. Unlike before, when their furious passion drove them, this kiss was soft and slow, and spoke of their commitment to one another, to their love and to their family. As they took their time and caressed each other, they silently gave everything they possessed to each other.

When they broke apart, Jean-Luc held Beverly close to him in his arms. "Thank you," he said into her hair. "Thank you for carrying my child."

With the arm wrapped around his middle, Beverly squeezed him tightly. His expression of gratitude struck her as odd, since they had both partaken in the joyous act of conception, but she could not bring herself to rib him. They lay together, drifting toward the rest their bodies needed. The bedroom was darker, due to the extinguishing of all the candles save one on the nightstand, and, in the late winter afternoon, seemed to encourage them to slumber.

Flush with the news of his soon-to-be progeny, however, Jean-Luc was too excited to sleep. Startling Beverly, he moved away from their embrace suddenly and ducked under the blankets to kiss her belly button. "A miracle," he whispered.

Beverly smiled. "Actually it's scientific, how it happened."

"Ssh." He kissed her again. "I don't want to hear about any science. Our baby was created by love." His lips slowly descended, at first tickling her below her navel with his kisses, then—after a few moments of paternal devotion—arousing her as he ventured lower. She moaned.

Suddenly he stopped and lifted his head up to look at his wife. "Beverly!"

She opened her eyes to see Jean-Luc's face white with panic. "What?"

"Could . . . I mean, what we just did, what I was going to do . . . ?"

"Yes?"

"Could it . . . hurt the baby?"

"No, my darling."

"Are you sure?"

A smile and a twinkling in her eyes. "I'm a midwife, remember?"

"Good."

Jean-Luc returned to his ministrations, growing more dedicated as he heard his wife moan.

"Oh, little one! Deanna, darling? I'm here."

Beverly started at the sound of the loud voice in the hall.

"What?" Jean-Luc lifted his head again.

Beverly whispered loudly, "It's Lwaxanna."

"Yes, I know," he said slyly.

"She's right outside the door." It was Beverly's turn to feel panicked.

He smirked devilishly. "The door is locked. I don't plan to invite her in."

"How's my grandson today?" Lwaxanna brayed.

Beverly grabbed a pillow and put it over her face to stifle her laughs.

Jean-Luc crawled farther under the covers to better reach the core of his wife's desire. Thinking of Beverly's vocalizations during lovemaking, and how they had nearly gotten them discovered in Virginia, he had a thought. Raising his head, he suggested, "Beverly, dear, perhaps you'd better keep that pillow handy."

The pillow promptly landed, not softly, on top of the quilt that covered his head.

With a self-satisfied grin at his rare success in teasing his wife, he returned to his task.

* * *

January 2, 1862

Once finished serving her breakfast, Alynna Nechayev's butler left her alone in the dining room, as usual. On his way to the kitchen, however, he heard a great rattling of china, loud enough to compel him to return in time to see Alynna setting a wobbling tea cup and saucer down on the tablecloth next to her plate. In all his years of working in the house, he had never known his mistress's hands to shake, as they appeared to be doing today. His first thought was that she must be dreadfully ill.

Alynna noticed the tall slave lingering in the room and looked up to find him staring at her with entirely impolite round eyes and mouth. "I'm fine, Polk," she said, "please leave me be."

Unsure of her health but unaccustomed to challenging her, Polk mumbled, "Yessum," and retreated. Out of view, he shook his head. Even if it were not illness, something was definitely wrong.

Not at all hungry, Alynna placed her hands palm down on the tablecloth and closed her eyes to calm herself. Even if these gestures worked, she knew, her anxiety would return, for now her whole world had changed. Just one day ago, she had awoken to a new year and the promise of a new, more prosperous and secure life.

Today, however, after a fitful sleep, she realized that she had placed herself in grave danger.

In the wee hours of the morning, on the first day of the year, she had allowed Kyle Riker to drive her home in his carriage and deflected his roving hands with her superior sobriety. At her house, she had allowed him one sloppy kiss, which he tried to convert into a clumsy grope. She had stopped his hand on her breast, making sure he had had a chance to feel what he was missing, then removed it, with unexpected difficulty. His greater physical strength, even while drunk, would soon overpower her determination, she realized, and she had escaped his clutches only by opening the door against which she had been leaning and athletically hopping down.

Polk had materialized in front of the house to assist her and it was then that Kyle had stumbled on to her driveway and proposed marriage.

She had him. She immediately accepted, then went to bed reveling in the success of her plan and the power and fortune that would soon be hers.

By mid-day, she had heard that her former best friend, Vash, had been found dead. The official cause of death was suicide and the county folk, although horribly shocked, accepted that conclusion.

But Alynna knew better. She knew her friend. And she knew her fiancé.

There was no more resourceful person, woman or man, than Vash. Even though her imprisonment had disheartened her, Vash had maintained hope that Q would free her and had known that, ultimately, she would prevail against the charges against her. Like Alynna, Vash had been a schemer, a planner. She had been tough, unsentimental. Another woman might have crumbled, but Alynna could not imagine Vash's confinement over the holidays or her isolation from family and friends being enough to drive her to kill herself. If anything, the desperateness of her circumstances would have been whiskey on the fire of her revenge. No, Vash would never have given up on life.

On the other hand, Alynna was now convinced, Kyle may have been capable of having her murdered. Kyle had been at Lwaxanna's party when Vash died, but that was immaterial to Alynna. He owned at least two score of black men who could have carried out the deed. He could have a key to the jail. For people with unchecked power, anything was possible, anything that they wanted to do. Two days ago, she would not have thought that the universe of things that Kyle had wanted would have included murder. Yes, he was ambitious and ethically uninhibited, but she had never known him to commit any act as outright depraved as this. More than grief over her friend's death, of course, what unnerved Alynna was the inescapable realization that, if Kyle could kill Vash, he could kill her.

And she was going to be married to him. He would have all the access he needed. It would be very simple to kill her or have her killed—strangle her in their bedroom, have a slave stab her through a sofa, push her down the long staircase. Her mind reeled imagining the possibilities.

Her options, in the corner into which she had backed herself, she now saw, were few. If she reneged on her promise of marriage, that might anger him to the point of murder, too. If she married him but continued to pursue her own agenda, as she had planned . . . . Alynna saw no way to do so now. She would have to keep Kyle happy and deceiving him was extremely risky. Vash's killing had shifted the power in Kyle's and her relationship and suddenly everything—land, money, sex—was firmly under his control. She felt trapped.

As her meat and grits cooled, Alynna tried to think beyond the confines of her house and betrothal. First, there were Kyle's intentions to secure a high-level position in the Confederate government in Richmond. They could purchase a house there and, as much as she would have liked to move with him, maintaining two residences would always allow her to live apart from him, to literally have the space she needed to be safer.

Next, of course, the land. Between her property and Kyle's lay two other plantations: Lwaxanna's and Q's. Since he was now related to Lwaxanna by marriage, he could probably bamboozle her into ceding some kind of control, have her sign some type of contract that would accomplish ends to which Lwaxanna would have no inkling. If Kyle could have Q convicted of smuggling—which was by no means a sure thing—then Q's land would be for sale. The auction would be another unknown, since anyone could theoretically purchase it, but how many people would choose to lay out so much money during a war and the founding of a new country? No, the land was as good as Kyle's. Control of one-third of the county, with all the cotton production that entailed, during a time when selling cotton to a government making military uniforms was a sound business, while he would be rubbing elbows with decision-makers in Richmond, including, she was certain, those who would be ordering uniforms.

Brilliant plan, cunningly executed, she had to concede.

Was there another alliance she could form with anyone else in the county? Her overtures to Norah Satie had been largely unsuccessful. The arrogant judge's daughter had connections in Atlanta and family somewhere in Virginia. It was possible that a power struggle in this rural county was too small to hold much of her attention. Small landowners, the Barclays were unambitious and unengaged; they would be of no help. Alynna did not know the Maxwells very well, but her late husband had served with Ben in the Indian wars and spoke highly of the man's passion. His wife, in contrast, was aloof and snobby, Alynna thought, and she had never really formed a relationship with the woman. No, there was no one in the county who could help her challenge Kyle—

Or was there? With a stabbing lucidity, Alynna suddenly remembered the two neighbors with whom she had celebrated the new year, scarcely more than a day earlier. Could the Captain and Mrs. Picard possibly help her? She had known Ro Laren for years, but just barely. That the young woman likely did not know her own parents was for the better, Alynna considered, since her mother had been a dangerous free spirit and her father had been a rebellious Chinaman. Robert Picard had made known his intention to stay out of local political squabbles, but his brother had already become more connected to the area by marrying Miss Ro.

How could she enlist Captain Picard's help? Romance was off the table, thus she would need to present a business incentive to him. From what she could see from her own property, the Picard-Ro lands were productive. If anything, it appeared as though they had cultivated more land last season. Alynna would need to devise a creative, lucrative plan to attract the captain's interest. She would have to think about this some.

To think clearly, she would need to nourish her mind and body. Nodding to herself, Alynna picked up her fork and began to eat for the first time since learning of Vash's death. She would finish her breakfast, then go for a walk through the arbor and gardens of her plantation to help her think. She would come up with a plan. She had no choice if she was going to escape Kyle's clutches and she fully intended to escape.

* * *

Late morning found Jean-Luc spooning his body around Beverly's after reuniting with her and making love. They had so much to talk about, once their need for each other was sated. Beverly moaned dreamily, kissing his fingers.

Their time together was so precious. The day before, they had scarcely had time to talk, so wrapped up in pleasuring each other were they. Jean-Luc had finally had a chance to tell Beverly about Vash's death, Q's arrest and his consequent promotion. He shared his concern that his greater responsibilities would impede his ability to escape the army and to secret Wesley to safety. A warning knock on their bedroom door—by Guinan—had then alerted them that it was dinner time, which forced them to discreetly leave the sanctuary of their room, one by one. Beverly had understood, without anyone telling her, that Jean-Luc would have to depart to Miss Ro's home for the night.

After a hurried breakfast at the Ro house, where his entrance in the dining room had nearly caused Miles O'Brien to choke on his ham and eggs, Jean-Luc had toured the new village built in the center of the property with Dathon and checked in with Mr. Soong and Worf. Jean-Luc found Dathon to be a natural leader and a visionary thinker, someone who could hold the new community together, possibly become a mayor one day. The report from those assigned to monitor county traffic was less optimistic: the roads had been filled with holiday celebrants, visiting family and friends and with unmarried soldiers, home on leave and carousing The conductors would need at least another day of observation before even making a plan to transport the passengers.

Next, Jean-Luc met with Will in his study, to inform him of recent developments. Unable to refuse his own promotion, Jean-Luc in turn promoted Will to captain, so that they younger man could lead the company. When Will balked, Jean-Luc reminded that he was well respected by the men and knowledgeable about military strategy.

"Don't forget, Will," Jean-Luc added, "I'm not going anywhere. I'll still be your commanding officer. I'll still continue to provide any guidance you may need, or," he added with a sly smile, "think you need."

The reassurance helped the sleep-deprived Will. Nevertheless, he left the study not entirely convinced that he was ready to command the company. He decided to take a few moments for himself for a stroll around the plantation grounds. Without a baby crying, fussing or sleeping incredibly lightly, he hoped, he could sort through his thoughts in peace. As he stepped out into the chilly sunshine, he was already reviewing his qualifications optimistically. Perhaps Jean-Luc was right and all he had to do was trust his instincts and intellect.

Beverly had spent the early hours of her day tending to Deanna, which also gave her the opportunity to gush about her reunion with Jean-Luc. Now that Jean-Luc knew, she shared the news of her pregnancy. The two women talked about babies and took care of little William. When Marie joined them, the three of them talked and laughed like friends with no complications of war or conspiracy clouding their lives.

When Will blushingly interrupted the women, he brought the news that Jean-Luc was waiting for Beverly in their bedroom and Beverly exited, to the smirks and suppressed giggles of her friends, without feeling the slightest embarrassment.

Now, relaxing with their heated bodies cooling against each other, familiarly fitting together, like a hand and glove, Beverly and Jean-Luc had time to talk over the several significant developments in their lives, more than one of which centered on Wesley. Beverly poured out the story of Wesley's plans for a wedding and reunion up north, eager for Jean-Luc to support her opposition. To her surprise, he did nothing of the sort.

"I don't know what to do, Jean-Luc. Maybe if you talked to him . . . ."

"Beverly," Jean-Luc cupped her soft shoulder and turned her toward him. He looked her in the eye as he spoke. "Wesley is a young man, now, and he's making his own decisions about his life," he said gently.

"But, he's making the _wrong_ decision," she protested, worried.

He took her hand. "I know it seems like the wrong decision to you, but, it's his life and his decision to make."

"But he's too young to be married!" She lifted her head up and rested it on her hand.

"Beverly, _I_ can hardly tell a man at what age he should marry."

She was frustrated. "Don't be smart with me. Getting married now will interfere with his studies."

"Plenty of married men study at university. It's not unheard of."

"But it would be more difficult. I have to stop him from making a terrible mistake."

He smiled and kissed the hand he held.

"Beverly, I know this may be difficult for you, but Wesley has to make his own decisions. If he does decide to marry, we'll . . . make it work somehow. But the decision has to be his." He kissed her beautiful forehead.

Beverly tried to wrap her head around the concept of her son acting as an adult, making his own decisions and mistakes, even if they were enormous ones, such as this sudden idea of marriage. She looked into her husband's eyes and saw clouds gathering. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Jean-Luc said without thinking. "It's just that . . . I've encountered a complication in getting Wesley out of the army and safely ensconced in a university."

"What kind of complication?"

"My contact in the north believes that he might not be safe there. Young men are being forced into service. In some cases, yanked right off the street."

Beverly frowned. "Then, where could he go to be safe and away from this horrible war?"

Jean-Luc looked into his wife's eyes. His idea would require more than love—trust, trust with the life of the person she held most dear. "I want to send him to London."

"London? So far away . . . ." Beverly lay her head back down on her pillow and closed her eyes. The thought of Wesley being in New York, hundreds of miles away and in enemy territory, had been difficult enough to accept. "When would I see him again?"

Her movement away from him, especially closing her eyes so that he could not read those telling gateways to her soul, concerned Jean-Luc. She really was very upset at this notion, he could tell. Relocating a loved one across the ocean was perhaps an easier journey for a sailor to become accustomed to, he reflected.

He sought to reassure her. "The most you would have to wait to see him would be until the end of the war. You might even be able to travel to England before then. Beverly, you have the means to travel now." He paused and mulled over a new thought. "Perhaps, it would be better if Marie and you relocated to Europe for the duration of the war."

That unexpected prospect widened Beverly's eyes. She had never thought of leaving the county. Perhaps, however, it was time to consider a change. In Jean-Luc's eyes, she found strength, love and adventure. A new husband, a new baby—why not a new country and a new life? He watched as her face softened. "Well, maybe it would be better. In any event, I couldn't leave before the baby was born."

He smiled at her reminder of the incredible event and wrapped his arm around her abdomen, caressing her stomach as though his touch would help their child grow.

"The baby's going to need a name."

"Yes, they usually do."

He smiled and gently poked her side, but immediately grew somber. "Beverly, there's a chance, a very good chance, that I will not be here when the baby is born. I think we should decide on a name before I leave."

Beverly loved how her husband's innate practicality almost always surfaced, even as he became accustomed to his impending fatherhood. Yet . . . . "In my experience, choosing names can take some time."

"But if we don't have time, perhaps we can expedite the process?" He had no idea if she had any preferences. He certainly did not want to impose his ideas on her; furthermore, he was uncertain what his ideas on this matter _were_. Saddling a child with a particular name for the duration of the person's life? He had never made such a monumental decision.

"Perhaps," she said doubtfully. A thought occurred to her. "Jean-Luc, if the baby's a boy, would you want to name him after you? Jean-Luc, junior?"

The idea struck him as arrogant, even embarrassing. She felt him shaking his head on the pillow behind her. "I don't think so," he muttered. His reticent tone persuaded Beverly not to pry and, even more, not to ask him about naming their son after his father. She knew from Marie that Jean-Luc's father's name was Maurice and that Maurice had not approved of his younger son's career choice.

"Besides," Jean-Luc added, "my son will be American. What kind of name is 'Jean-Luc' for an American boy?"

Beverly shared her concern that their child be raised to live anywhere in the world. "He—or she—will have a French surname, so I think a French first name would sound better and make more sense. Besides, if Marie ad I go to France during the war, would we come back afterward? Or would we just stay there?"

Jean-Luc was touched that she would honor his heritage by bestowing a French Christian name on their child. Their child, he repeated to himself, the news still fresh and hard to believe. Beverly was carrying his child. The thought distracted him from the unanswered question of in which country his child might be raised. With a hand on her belly, on their baby, he kissed the back of her neck. The taste of her excited him and his mouth travelled down to her shoulder.

"Jean-Luc? Are you still thinking of names?"

"Mmmm."


	60. Chapter 60

Sorry for the long break while I worked out a plot issue. This chapter begins with a suggestion from a reviewer. I very much appreciate you reading and reviewing. Wishing all a happy end of August/end of summer. Enjoy! Best, Liz

* * *

On the third day of the new year, Jean-Luc decided he had had enough of sleeping alone in his bedroom in Miss Ro's house. Despite the near-constant presence of Kate and Lwaxanna upstairs, and the occasional visitor bringing gifts downstairs, he threw caution to the wind so that Beverly and he could make love each night and sleep in each other's arms. They would find that, although they now had plenty of room in their bed, they still preferred to sleep entwined with each other in one position or another.

Thus, on the fourth day, Beverly and Jean-Luc awakened early enough to make love and lie together in a sunrise aftermath before breakfast. They luxuriated in comfort and togetherness, gazing at each other, talking and laughing, sharing their dreams for the future. After a while, however, Jean-Luc grew concerned about Beverly getting her nourishment. He descended to the dining room to eat and instructed Guinan to send breakfast upstairs to his expectant wife, before she rose to check on Deanna and care for Dalen. The joyous knowledge of his impending fatherhood lit him from within and his good humor infected everyone in the house.

While he was discussing with Worf, Geordi and Mr. Soong additional ways to improve the land's yield, he was interrupted by Guinan, who informed him—with a warning in her dark eyes—that no less an eminent personage than Senator Kyle Riker awaited him in his front sitting room.

Kyle rose when Jean-Luc entered and offered his hand. The man's smile immediately triggered Jean-Luc's suspicions. "Hello, captain, beautiful morning, isn't it?"

"Yes," Jean-Luc responded. "I'm always surprised by how much warmer winter is here in Georgia compared to my hometown in France."

His lack of personal knowledge of French winters was no impediment to Kyle's bluster. "That's very true, my friend. You can't take issue with our mild climate." He gave his host a familiar, friendly slap on the back.

The formalities thus dispensed, Jean-Luc was about to offer his guest refreshments, when Guinan appeared with a tray on which coffee mugs and tea cups surrounded a teapot and coffee pot.

"Ah, thank you, Guinan. Coffee or tea, Senator?"

"I'll take a coffee, but . . . ."

Jean-Luc looked up from the tray that Guinan was settling on the low, antique table to see Kyle frowning down at the efficient serving woman. "Senator?" He asked, endeavoring to contain his anger.

Kyle met his eyes. "Captain, this is a social call, of course, but also a business call. I hope that we can speak where our conversation will have no chance of being overheard." A sideways glance at Guinan's departing figure clarified the threat that he perceived.

Jean-Luc looked about the room as if scanning its security from eavesdropping, a concern he had never had occasion to consider. Opened doors provided looks into the back parlor and the hallway. French doors led to the verandah. Tall windows, though closed to keep out the January chill, graced the front of the room. Even Marie's airy décor seemed to evoke an openness that his guest seemed to distrust. Nothing about the room suggested privacy, although Jean-Luc knew that no one besides Guinan would possibly position him- or herself to overhear his conversations, and he had no problem with his most trusted advisor listening. If anything, Kyle's unnecessary precautions alerted his host that he likely would share his theatrically mysterious message with Guinan.

With a trim smile, Jean-Luc extended his arm toward the hall. "We can talk in my study."

Once safely ensconced within Jean-Luc's private space, the men sat. Kyle seemed to size Jean-Luc up for several purposely discomfiting seconds before he spoke. "Captain, I came here to find out if you're the kind of man I think you are."

"Oh?" Jean-Luc folded his hands across his stomach and crossed his legs. "And what kind of man would that be?"

Kyle smirked. "A shrewd businessman."

In Labarre, the term would not necessarily have been a compliment. Business success was measured not only in money amassed, but also in an individual's character and place in the community. As pronounced by Kyle, however, Jean-Luc heard an admiration in the word, a reverence for a man who would cheat and exploit others for the sake of his own profit.

"I have a proposition for you that will benefit both of us immensely." Kyle leaned forward conspiratorially. "How would you like to sell your cotton this summer for double the price you got last year?"

The overture sounded to Jean-Luc like the opening line of a common huckster.

"And how could I possibly achieve that feat?" Jean-Luc asked, knowing that the answer had something to do with working with his guest.

"Through collusion, of course." Kyle sat up straight and confident. "I can't go into the details, but, by this summer, I will control a large amount of land in this county and I want to get top dollar for my cotton. You have a very considerable estate yourself. If we held back our harvest and demanded more, the market would have to respond."

"What about the other planters?"

"They will be inconsequential. We will effectively control the cotton market in the county. I just need you to agree to work with me, to not bring your cotton to the market until we are both guaranteed double the rate we got last year."

Jean-Luc was annoyed by the provincial politician's facile assumptions. "Is it really that simple? What other, external, forces will affect the market price of commodities in six to eight months? Wouldn't other growers, in neighboring counties, fill the gap we try to create? How did you arrive at that figure, double last year's price? Is it arbitrary or based on an analysis of what the market will bear?"

Kyle had not expected a challenge from the lesser man in the form of an economics lesson. He smiled in his charming yet malevolent way. "None of that matters, captain. You're talking about variables that are irrelevant due to one over-riding factor in my favor."

"Which is?"

"Power. I will control the end market for cotton, I will limit our buyers geographically and I will starve whomever I have to starve to get the price I want."

Jean-Luc felt a shiver run down his spine at the mention of starving people. During wartime, his sad experience had taught him, lack of food was a very real threat. He had never heard anyone propose to use it as a bargaining tool.

Keeping his face a mask, he purposely kept his voice low, in contrast to Kyle's rising tones. "What impact will this have on the rest of the residents of the county?"

Kyle harrumphed. "Captain, I could not care less about the rest of the residents of the county, but, if you want my opinion, I would guess that, after we're paid, the amount they'll be able to get will drop precipitously. Maybe some of them won't be able to sell. Worst case, they'll become so financially strapped that they'll need to sell some of their land. The two of us will be in an excellent position to buy it."

France had, of course, developed its democracy on the model of the United States, but Jean-Luc had never heard an elected official express such callousness toward the people who had trusted him to represent their interests. Were all American government officials so self-interested? Was the phenomenon localized, in the South or in Georgia? Had this attitude developed over time? Or, was Kyle, as Jean-Luc hoped, an exception to the rule?

"What do you say, captain?" Kyle sat back on the couch, confident in the appeal of his pitch. "Together, we would make a formidable team."

 _Indeed,_ Jean-Luc thought, too formidable. But, if he did not join Kyle's "team," would the people who lived on his plantation be subject to the economic bullying that Kyle had hoped to perpetrate on the rest of the locals?

"I will let you know by the end of the week." His announcement ended the meeting.

* * *

It was not until he was on his way to his bedroom to meet with Beverly that Jean-Luc realized that Kyle had not asked about, nor asked to visit, his son, daughter-in-law or newborn grandson. Halfway up the stairs, Jean-Luc heard Lwaxanna Troi's voice bellowing out from her daughter's temporary bedroom. He turned around and walked back down. His consultation with Beverly on Kyle's disturbing plan would have to wait.

Instead, he decided to tackle the issue of the stalled passengers. He found Guinan directing food preparations in the kitchen. Leading her outside for another meeting, he shared with Worf and her an idea he had for the timing of the next journey. Although she was skeptical of the idea, Worf readily agreed. He took off to communicate the plan to the rest of the conspirators.

Jean-Luc and Guinan returned to the house, he to his study to begin his analysis of the situation in Virginia from the perspective of his new regiment, and she to oversee everything from cooking and cleaning to the concealing of secrets. Quite occupied, neither kept track of the passage of time and they were only interrupted from their vocations by the arrival of another unexpected guest.

Guinan had shown Alynna into the front parlor, where she was sitting straight up, uncomfortable on the comfortable sofa, when Jean-Luc entered the room.

"Mrs. Nechayev," Jean-Luc said cordially.

"Hello, captain," Alynna looked up at her host without smiling.

It occurred to Jean-Luc, having recently spent time in the company of other southern women, that Mrs. Nechayev never assumed the coquettish mannerisms that many of the others often employed to convince men to do their bidding.

"Can I get you anything to drink? Perhaps something to eat?" Jean-Luc remained standing, intending to summon Guinan.

"No, thank you, captain. I actually came to discuss some business with you. I wonder if we might speak somewhere more private?"

For the second time today, Jean-Luc's guard flew up. "Of course. Please, come with me." A gentleman, he offered his hand to help his neighbor up from her seated position. Her gloved hand took his long enough for her to rise, then dropped to her side. He noted that Mrs. Nechayev walked confidently, her petite figure dressed as elegantly as always in a black suit with blue trim. Everything about her conveyed a tidiness and an authority—perhaps, he reflected, an air of superiority borne of her wealth and position. He showed her to his study, where she sat in a captain's chair, eschewing the couch, with a quite masculine air of purpose.

Jean-Luc decided to treat her, more or less, as a businessman. He sat in the matching chair on the other side of the couch and rested his elbows on its arms, which allowed him to clasp his hands together in front of him, not unlike the pose he had adopted with Senator Riker hours earlier. "What can I do for you Mrs. Nechayev?"

Alynna removed her black wool gloves and set them on her lap. "I have a proposal for you, captain. I find myself in a situation in which I would like to make arrangements for my future. I would like to execute a deed granting you a ten-year interest on a substantial portion of my estate. All the lower fields, in fact, including the blacksmith barn."

 _What!_ That was an enormous part of her lands, adjacent to his and Miss Ro's. The offer mystified him.

"I would require you to continue to provide me blacksmithing services," Alynna continued. "The sale documents would specify a price, however, you need not actually pay me. You would be able to work the land and reap its profits for those ten years. Afterward, the property would revert back to me."

"And why would I want to enter such a lease?" Jean-Luc, of course, had some idea of why, although her precise motive for selling her land to him, rather than to Kyle, was unclear.

A crease appeared in Alynna's forehead. "There are obvious economic benefits to you, captain. You've seen the land. You know that it's arable."

Jean-Luc paused to regard the petite negotiator. "Yes, there are obvious economic benefits . . . all of which would accrue to me. Respectfully, Mrs. Nechayev, while I do not wish to cast aspersions on your character, I'm afraid the very one-sided nature of this proposed transaction is sufficient to make me suspicious."

He hoped that his candor had not offended her. While his veiled accusation would have been expected by a man who had proposed such a dubious transaction, he was not certain that it was an appropriate response to a woman.

"Captain, I'll be completely frank with you."

He had not expected to hear those words from her.

"I'm going to marry Kyle Riker. My property will become his." Alynna ignored her host's shocked face. "Before that happens, I would like to sell some of my property to you on a temporary basis. If possible, I'd also ask you to back-date the sales contract and deed to add greater plausibility to the transaction."

Jean-Luc looked at his bookcases thoughtfully in order to avoid staring at his neighbor, which rudeness was what he most wanted to do. Despite hardly knowing him, Mrs. Nechayev was placing an enormous amount of trust in him. Everything about her, her clothing, her bearing and her tone of voice, communicated her sense of superiority. Yet, her request sounded nothing short of desperate to him. What sequence of events had caused this strong woman to wish to hide the extent of her wealth—or perhaps safeguard a portion of it—from her prospective husband? Why was she marrying Kyle?

He looked down at his hands before catching her eyes. "Mrs. Nechayev, this is rather forward of me, but . . . do you _want_ to marry Senator Riker?"

"Yes, captain, that is forward of you," Alynna answered with a barely raised eyebrow. "I will forgive you but I won't answer you. Except to repeat my offer and . . . ."

Jean-Luc saw, in her pause, the slightest hint of human frailty, which vanished as quickly as it had surfaced.

". . . to ask you to please give it serious consideration."

Part of Jean-Luc wanted to help her. His instincts—admittedly, not as accurate when it came to women—told him that his neighbor was troubled. He hesitated to agree to the unusual proposition, however, his cautious nature—and Miss Ro's recent reprimand—reminding him that he was navigating in an alien land. County intrigues and personalities often eluded him, he knew, thus he would not make a decision without speaking to Guinan, Miss Ro and Beverly, at the very least.

"When will you be married?" He hoped his question was not too prying.

"I have a sister in Columbia whom I will insist on inviting. She'll travel here, then demand on planning a large, ostentatious affair. I should have a month." Her response was startlingly quick and well thought out. Clearly, she had given much thought to her plans.

"I promise that I shall give it serious consideration. I will let you know by the end of the week," he said for the second time that day.

* * *

William's color was good, Beverly reflected, as she examined him and changed his diaper. Based on the sheer number of square cloth diapers that William sent to the laundry, he was eating well, too. She wrapped him up in a purple gown that Lwaxanna had brought and Marie's warm, blue knit blanket, which she knew Deanna liked and sat down with him in the chair across from the bed while his mother ate breakfast. She hummed to him and gave him her finger to mouth while he looked up at her curiously.

"Beverly," Deanna said in between bites of Guinan's pancakes, "you look very well for a pregnant woman. Don't you get morning sickness?"

"Not really. I had some nausea, I don't know, maybe three or four times, but I never actually threw up."

"Really?" Deanna drank some orange juice. She had become accustomed to the various fruits that the Picard plantation somehow always managed to procure. "How did you manage that? And why didn't you share _that_ secret with me?" The mornings of her early months of pregnancy had featured regular bouts with her stomach, which she usually lost.

Beverly chuckled. "It wasn't anything I mastered. Every woman is different and I just never had much nausea. I did tend to get quite tired, but I seem to have more energy these days."

"I wonder why," Deanna smirked.

Beverly frowned. "It doesn't have anything to do with _that._ It's probably because I've crossed into my second trimester. Even you felt less nauseous by the beginning of your fourth month."

That was true, Deanna had to admit. "Speaking of the captain," Beverly looked up at the mention of his name, "are you meeting up with him for some daytime romance?" One week ago, Deanna would never have imagined her staid and proper friend making love with a mysterious foreigner in the middle of the day. Now that her world had been condensed to Will, William, her body and this bedroom, Beverly's dalliances were a highlight of her news from the outside world.

Beverly blushed at the suggestion, which immediately brought to mind Jean-Luc's touch and his body . . . . "No," she answered, returning to her friend's room. "He's gone into town on some errands and won't be back until later. And I have plenty to do here as well."

"Oh, I'm sorry. How awful for you to have to abstain for hours at a time." Deanna bit into a piece of ham.

Beverly sighed at her friend's sarcasm, nevertheless appreciating that it was wonderful to have a friend to make such jokes and to have a husband who created the reason for such a ribbing. Before she could respond, however, the women heard heavy footfalls on the steps. Since Will was at his father's house for the day, they could not guess who was approaching.

"Good morning, ladies!" Dr. Timicin smiled good naturedly, which Beverly would have thought inconsistent with his nature, in the doorway. "May I come in?"

Although it was late, after nine, Deanna had only just gotten the chance to eat. William had only just started to fall asleep. And men usually did not barge into the bedroom of a woman who had just had a baby. The expression on Deanna's shocked face, which only Beverly could see, clearly communicated her opinion.

Beverly stood up. "Doctor, I'll just put the baby down and you and I can talk somewhere more . . . ," she looked at Deanna's horrified face again, "comfortable."

When she lay William in the cradle, he protested by waking up immediately and beginning to cry.

"All right," Beverly said to him. "You want to be held and I can do that."

Brushing off Deanna's offer to take her son, Beverly rested him on her shoulder. "Deanna, you just take care of yourself this morning. I'll have Guinan send up one of the girls to bathe you and wash your hair."

"Really?" The thought of bathing distracted Deanna from everything else in the world, including her son, who was about to embark on his first trip out of the bedroom.

"Yes, you're ready." She smiled at her friend, then turned to Dr. Timicin. "Why don't we sit in the parlor downstairs?"

By the time they reached the front parlor, William had settled down comfortably with a small yawn and Beverly had become furious with Timicin. She led him into the room then spun around to face him. "What do you mean by coming up to a new mother's room?" She realized Guinan would never have let him up there. "How did you even get in here?"

"I—uh, I didn't want to bother anyone."

"Yes?"

"So, I let myself in."

The nerve of the man! Apparently, he was up to something that he did not want somebody to know about, Beverly reasoned. "Why did you come?"

Timicin was uncomfortable on the defensive. He stood up straight, surprised that his hostess had impolitely not offered him a seat, hoping to use his towering height to gain the advantage. "I wanted to check on the baby and the new mother, of course, since it was a premature birth with complications."

Beverly's face did not soften a bit. "I find that highly implausible, doctor, since you know that I'm very capable of caring for both my patients and your own mid-wife has been here every day and, I'm sure, provided you very thorough updates."

Kate's updates had, in fact, been both daily and painstakingly thorough. "Yes, but that's no excuse for a physical examination of a patient," he answered haughtily. "And, I also thought I might have a word with you."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he fumbled uncomfortably. "Mrs. Crusher, may we please sit down?"

Beverly considered the request. She had no guarantee, of course, that William would continue to sleep if she re-positioned herself, although he had been sleeping peacefully in the chair when they were interrupted. Dr. Timicin did not know how easily the baby calmed. If he had not insinuated himself into a house with a newborn and schemed to speak with the midwife, he would never have created this lapse of etiquette. She did not want to be rude, but she could not quite overcome her desire to blame her erstwhile adversary for his own discomfort. "Why don't you sit down, doctor," she offered pleasantly. "I'll stand, since I have the baby to put to sleep." To emphasize her point, she rubbed William's back in slow circles as if he needed soothing.

Dr. Timicin was not quite sure what to do. It would most certainly be improper to sit while a lady stood. He eyed the various chairs, the sofa and loveseat, began to speak twice, but stopped himself, then eventually decided to set his hat down on the nearest chair and remain standing, more or less facing the woman who somehow always seemed to become a sort of adversary to him.

Beverly had little patience left and his hemming and hawing was rapidly depleting it. "Dr. Timicin, what did you come to see me about?"

Puffing out his chest, Dr. Timicin announced, "Mrs. Crusher, I would like to offer you your old job back."

Beverly blinked. "What?"

"Since it is now the consensus of the county that your son was, in fact, not a traitor, I don't see that the local population will have any objection to you treating them. You've demonstrated that your skills are far superior to those of Mrs. Pulaski and I want to employ the best nurse that I can."

The possibility had never occurred to Beverly, but, taking a second to consider it, she did not find it at all appealing. "I'm sorry, Dr. Timicin, but I'm quite busy here caring for Dr. Quaice and, as you can see, delivering babies. I'm not interested in my old job."

Dr. Timicin was so flabbergasted that he forgot his manners. "But, how can you keep living off your friend's hospitality? Certainly, there is a limit as to how long you can impose!"

His penetrating question cornered Beverly into having to respond without revealing that she was living in her husband's house or that she would soon be unable to work because of her condition. Thanks to her potent temper, however, this did not present any particular difficulties.

She answered quickly, assertively. "How rude of you to make insinuations about my position."

Dr. Timicin nearly blushed. She was right. "I—I only . . . . I apologize. But, Mrs. Crusher, you have no means of support. Mrs. Pulaski tells me you don't even charge her rent."

His continued probing only stoked the flames of her anger. "My affairs are none of your business." She started to walk toward the room's doorway. "You obviously don't understand the welcoming ways of Europeans and you most certainly do not know my great friend, Madame Picard, very well."

"I don't see—"

"If you did, you would know that I have been invited to stay indefinitely, keeping Marie company and helping out where I can and I intend to do so regardless of the beliefs of any ill-mannered newcomers to our county." Her voice had risen to a volume that, one might reasonably think, could wake a sleeping baby. She strode confidently to the front door.

Now that he was clearly being shown the door, Dr. Timicin's anger outweighed his great desire to employ the very talented and, he could not ignore, very attractive nurse. He returned to the parlor to retrieve his innocently resting hat and stormed back to the difficult woman, who had now opened the door and stood beside it, her eyes fiery. She had succeeded in making him feel inferior to her and his outrage took control of his usually subordinate mouth. "Mrs. Crusher, your living in the house of the man who rejected you is unseemly at best and scandalous at worst. Your rejecting a kind offer of honest employment certainly suggests that you are up to something that you wish to conceal. And I, ma'am," he swept his hat on to his head with a dramatic flourish, "feel under no obligation to assist you in such a public deception of your neighbors. Good day."

Beverly's mouth opened in shock as she watched the new county doctor stalk off to his carriage. She unconsciously tightened her hold on William as she began to worry how Dr. Timicin might cause trouble for her. As he drove off, she wondered if his ire was greater than his wish to hire her. She knew so little about him that she was anxious to know whether he was a threat to her secrets or simply an arrogant surgeon whose pride she had insulted.

From her position in the servants' corridor, behind the main hall, Guinan breathed easily. In a battle between the two physicians, as she considered them, she had no doubt who was the stronger.

* * *

"I'm telling you, Jean-Luc, it was nothing short of a miracle."

In planning his errands in town, Jean-Luc had wisely scheduled J.P. Hanson for lunch, rather than a morning meeting, so that the two men could imbibe spirits if necessary. When summoned, the waiter at the hotel had brought two glasses of J.P.'s favorite scotch and, after tiring of refilling them, had eventually left the bottle at J.P.'s regular corner table. The soothing liquor had helped J.P. relate the story of his wife's grave illness and emergency operation. As he listened, Jean-Luc had enjoyed the high quality of a commercially produced alcohol, which he had missed during his months in the army.

"If it hadn't been for Beverly Crusher," J.P. said, grasping Jean-Luc's wrist tightly, "my wife would have died two months ago."

Jean-Luc's pride in Beverly soared, even as his friend's situation forced him to imagine what it would feel like to lose his wife to the permanence of death.

Lost in their thoughts, both men took another drink.

J.P. wiped his face with his starched linen napkin. "So, whatever it is that you want me to do this time, Jean-Luc, I would be more than happy to do for you."

The men decided to postpone such talk until their meal was completed. They enjoyed juicy steaks and root vegetables. In Jean-Luc's view, the delicious repast lacked only fresh tropical fruit as a desert. In his months away from home, he had missed the sweet treats and he expressed that longing to his companion.

"Ah, well, that's just the tip of the iceberg to come, I'm afraid," J.P. said, leaning back, sated, in his chair.

"What do you mean?"

"The Union navy has been blockading our ports. It wasn't a problem immediately because there were a number of blockade runners getting through. Last few months, though, the blockades have tightened and the runners have been getting arrested. A few items weren't getting through, then a few more . . . . Before you know it, we won't be able to get anything through it—in either direction."

As J.P. resumed eating, Jean-Luc paused. At first, the mention of naval action in the war had intrigued him, making his affinity for the sea re-surface and conjuring vague ideas of somehow transferring to the Confederate navy. However, he quickly became preoccupied with the problem at hand. "In either direction," he repeated, as his thoughts raced through the implications of the blockade, far beyond the lack of fruit on his table.

After the disappointing dessert, J.P. lit his cigar—Jean-Luc declined to join him—and the men walked back to J.P.'s house to address Jean-Luc's business. Without his wife's assistance, J.P. took much longer to complete all paperwork, but he was determined to act on Jean-Luc's wishes before his friend returned to Virginia.

"Oh, and one last thing, J.P."

"Yes?"

"I want to make sure that Dalen Quaice is . . . provided for, in the event that something happens and Beverly is not able to care for him. I have no idea what means he possesses, but I would be very much obliged if any shortfall were made up from my funds."

J.P. returned his pen to its ink well, stood up behind his desk and extended his hand to Jean-Luc. "It will be my pleasure to see to that. In fact, since I don't know where I'll be in two years, I will have legal documents drawn up to cover that and I will deliver them to your house in the next few days along with the other contracts."

Shaking hands, Jean-Luc smiled. "Thank you. And, please plan to stay for dinner." When J.P. began to protest, Jean-Luc added, "I won't hear any excuses. If you need, I would be more than happy to send someone to sit with Mrs. Hanson while I am entertaining you."

As he watched his friend and client hurry out of the office, J.P. could not help admiring the man's courage and confidence.

Against his better judgment, Jean-Luc walked from J.P.'s house to the county jail. In the normal course of things—not that there was anything normal when it came to Q—he would be expected to visit his former commanding officer to offer support. With Kyle's machinations and the uncertainty of the war, Jean-Luc concluded it was prudent to maintain a good working relationship with his potential nemesis.

After his initial shock at the sudden appearance of a visitor, Sheriff Q had led Jean-Luc to Q's cell. Q sat hunched at the small writing desk, his plume furiously flying across the page.

Jean-Luc cleared his throat.

"Yes, yes," Q responded petulantly without looking up. "What is it? Can't you see that I'm busy?"

"I only meant to stop by for a short visit."

At the sound of Jean-Luc's voice, Q sat up straight and turned around to see his replacement. He rose immediately and walked over to the bars that confined him. "Jean-Luc!" His voice sounded merrier than his visitor expected. "I knew you'd come!"

"Yes, well, I would have been here sooner, but I had several affairs of my own to attend to," Jean-Luc apologized.

"That's not important." Q returned to his desk and collected several sealed envelopes. With two long strides, he was back at the imposing bars and handing the missives to his trusted officer. "What's important is that you get these letters to my attorneys and business associates in Atlanta—and beyond."

Jean-Luc perused the addresses, many of which were in Atlanta, but some that were scattered throughout the former United States—Richmond, New Orleans, New York, Boston, Lowell, Massachusetts.

Q snatched them out of his hands, with flaring dark eyes, reducing Jean-Luc to feeling like a guilty boy caught cheating by the schoolmaster. "You needn't memorize them for gossip's sake. It is imperative that these be delivered as fast as possible. My lawyers will bail me out of this rat hole and my associates will prevent the money in my accounts from mysteriously disappearing."

Jean-Luc nodded. Having recently met with Q's tormentor, he could appreciate Q's sense of urgency and his precautions. Furthermore, he reflected that perhaps having Q freed on bail might help to distract Kyle from his apparent plan to take over all the land within his considerable reach. "I shall see that these reach the addressees."

Q stared at him intently, unnervingly.

"Now," Q finally said. "What are your plans for _my_ regiment?"

Despite his work on the plantation and his precious time with Beverly, Jean-Luc had managed to devote a few hours to his new role as the commander of a much larger unit. With the goal of currying favor, or, at least, deflecting unwanted attention, Jean-Luc indulged Q with strategic ideas as well as mundane routines that he hoped to implement upon the regiment's re-grouping.

For his part, Q complimented Jean-Luc only as much as he needed to do so. He was beginning to see an up side to his being literally out of commission just as the war was heating up in the northern part of the Confederacy. With any luck, Jean-Luc would sustain the losses and the blame that he knew would be coming one day. His trick would be to overcome his legal troubles in time to resume his command, but not in time to be killed. Clearly, the timing required more thought. Luckily, in his present circumstances, he had plenty of time for that, plenty of time.


	61. Chapter 61

A (mostly) quiet night, a humorous morning and a very long day. Hope you enjoy. Thank you for reading and reviewing. ~ Liz

* * *

With moonlight streaking through the slats of the window blinds, Beverly opened her eyes and was able to see her sleeping husband. Lying on his back, Jean-Luc slept peacefully. She lifted her head up off her pillow next to him and just beheld him.

During the day, her husband bore immeasurably heavy weights on his shoulders. The safety of the men in his company, and, now, his regiment. The lives of the people working on his massive plantation and all the souls he had helped lead to freedom. The lives of his family, including his unborn child. His bare shoulders seemed no larger than those of an ordinary man, small to be able to bear such loads. Naked, he was only a man, but something about him made him much more to many, many people.

So often, he seemed to frown or at least to eschew smiling as he discharged the solemn duties of his life. With her alone, had she seen look and act truly happy. Resting, his relaxed face muscles and smooth forehead made him appear younger than his years. In profile, his nose looked a bit on the large side. She watched his chest, with its scattered gray hairs, just enough to run her fingers through, rise and fall with his steady breaths. The corners of his mouth were ever so slightly upturned, as though he were dreaming of something pleasant, and Beverly hoped his nocturnal thoughts included her.

Nights of blissful togetherness—which followed days during which she sometimes heard or glimpsed him at work—had coaxed Beverly into a false security, enabling her to forget that this remarkable man would one day soon be leaving her. She preferred to look at him and think of him as completely at peace, as he seemed while sleeping with her, and to imagine him never leaving her side, despite the future that soon would come knocking on their door to separate them. She gently slid her arm around his torso, fitted her body against his, and lay her head on his shoulder. Without waking, he sighed and closed his arm around her waist. They fit together perfectly, as though they had been made for each other, and, indeed, Beverly believed that they had been, for their personalities as much as their bodies. She kissed his chest and shut her eyes. In his embrace, she drifted off to sleep, imagining that she would always be with him, Jean-Luc, her husband.

Marie finally set down the book she had been reading and blew out the candle next to her bed. She found the increased activity in the house exciting and exhausting, yet, when she lay down to sleep the last few nights, her mind was too busy to rest. Jean-Luc seemed to issue orders to the entire plantation during the day, turning their comfortable routines upside down. Deanna had to be fed and the baby cared for, and the new father required the same. Kate visited, Lwaxanna intruded and Marie found herself constantly fretting about Jean-Luc and Beverly being discovered. Her moments of peace came in the stolen hours she spent knitting in Dalen's room. As she worked, she chatted with her ailing friend and his silence reminded her how much she had enjoyed his personality and intellect. Beverly still held out hope that the plants she fed him would improve his condition, but Marie had not seen any evidence of change. She sighed and plumped her pillow, seeking rest.

Will delicately set his son down in the cradle that Lwaxanna had had Holm bring over to their temporary bedroom in the Picard house. Little William was asleep as soon as he was tucked in tightly. The doting father stood for some time watching the dark-haired boy silently breathe. A whole life of adventures lay before him—playing in the creek behind the fields, climbing the trees that lined the beautiful walk that led to Will's mother's grave, eating sweets, learning to ride a horse. Will was in awe of the beautiful boy that Deanna had borne him. More than anything in the world, he wanted to stay with them, safe and sound, in his father's mansion.

But, he knew that was impossible. Not when the future of his entire world was at risk. The burden of his new command weighed heavily on him. Although they had not seen any action, the reports of fighting were ominous. The Yankees had, as Jean-Luc had warned, significantly larger forces. So far, the superior Confederate army leadership had out maneuvered them, but could that advantage win the war in the long run? He himself now bore some responsibility for making the decisions that would keep his men alive, keep territory in Confederate hands and, ultimately, keep his wife and son safe. Nothing was more important to him than the lives of Deanna and William, not even his own. Whatever the next months required of him, he hoped to be up to the challenge.

Beside her, Sarjenka slept. As was her habit, Ro slowly lifted her hand from the little girl's back, which Ro had rubbed until the dream world claimed her. Ro knew from experience that Sarjenka would sleep soundly until the early morning, when she would begin to toss and turn again—and look for the woman who had become her protector. No stranger to the terrors of the night, Ro had never intended to leave her young friend alone in the midst of the darkest dark, but, to her surprise, she found that she could not resist.

Ro carefully moved away from the sleeping child, to the far edge of the big bed. She slowly rolled out of the blankets until her feet landed in her slippers and she stood. She wrapped her thin robe around her lithe frame and, without a candle, found her way to the door. With a last look back at Sarjenka, Ro opened her door and snuck out of the room to spend a few passionate hours with the man that, she knew, wanted only her sex, and that only to temporarily fend off the constant pain of missing the woman he loved. When dawn came, it would find her lying, satisfied and tired, next to Sarjenka. All in all, Ro found the arrangement much to her liking.

The nightmare tore Worf from his slumber. Had he said anything, had he yelled? Alexander sat up in his hammock. In the dark, Worf was not sure if his son was looking at him. Before he could decide if he should speak to him, Alexander mumbled to himself and lay back down, still asleep. Worf closed his eyes, but the images that had haunted him crept back into focus from the recesses of his mind—the dead body, the liquor jug, the shot that felled Jenny, the blind race through the woods to safety, the captain covered in blood. Everything he had done, every decision he had made, every violence he had experienced conducting passengers on the railroad. Everything returned to him in the hours when he should have been at peace. Despite the warning of danger that the dream portended, Worf was reminded that they would have to take to the road again soon with the passengers they had been accommodating as guests since the new year. He knew he would sleep no more this night.

Jean-Luc woke first and found Beverly in his arms. In the earliest rays of the dawn, her tousled hair framed her face, which rested close to his head on the pillow. The face that was so often animated by the critical thinking of its intelligent owner, that so often was lit by her playful sense of humor, but now radiated only her beauty. With her light skin and delicate features, not to mention her slender frame, she appeared wonderfully soft, the weaker sex, but Jean-Luc knew his wife to be incredibly strong. The arms he had kissed earlier that evening had supported half his weight as Wesley and she had helped him out of the tunnel when he was unable to stand. Her slim legs had kept her upright during the grueling surgery that J.P. had described, while her lovely hands had operated _inside_ another person's body. Much as she had done for Ben and for him.

Having devoted some time to pondering her strength, he expanded his scope to marvel at how she had traveled to be with him in the Carolinas. How she had taken care of her house and Wesley and even Dalen for so many years. How she had suffered the loss of her first husband, but found the fortitude to go on with her life. Yet, in sleep, she seemed so feminine and fragile, a loving, caring woman who was carrying their child. He would not have thought anything could make Beverly more beloved to him, but, with her pregnancy suddenly the two of them—soon to be three of them—were forever bound together. They would be a family. He would have, for the first time, at his advanced age, his own family.

Jean-Luc gently lay his head next to Beverly's. For a few perfect stolen moments he just looked at her, trying not to wake her with his exhalations, grateful to be the man she loved. Although he had never been a believer in such things, he knew with a certainty he could not explain that they belonged together. He vowed to somehow straighten out the deceptions in their lives, so that one day they could live in peace and simplicity, together. He would be a devoted husband and learn to be a good father, with Beverly's guidance. In just the short time since their marriage, he had had glimpses of how well they could work together, how in tune to one another they could be. He could not imagine life without her, sleep without her by his side, a world without them loving each other.

His arm around her, he closed his eyes.

* * *

The baby just would not stop crying. After a half hour or so, he hardly seemed to have enough energy left, yet he still rasped a tired, empty sound out of his tiny lungs.

Beverly sighed. "I'm going to see if I can help."

Lying next to her, Jean-Luc smiled at his wife's commitment to her patients. Even though it meant that she would be leaving his side, he admired her sense of duty. He watched her dress, his eyes devouring every beautiful contour of her naked body.

She noticed his attention.

"Why, captain, you're a married man. I dare say, you're looking at me in a most provocative manner!"

Jean-Luc's mouth curved into a sly grin. "Oh, I most definitely am looking at you provocatively, doctor. Your body provokes an extreme reaction in me."

With a satisfied smile, Beverly buttoned the top button on her dress, then opened the bedroom door a tiny bit. She peeked out into the hallway and was relieved to see it was empty. She ducked her head back into the room to see Jean-Luc still watching her intently. She lingered, wanting to stay with him as much as she wanted to go to her friends.

"I love you," she whispered.

He looked up at her, still glowing from their love making, holding his heart captive with her dancing sapphire eyes. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, bestowing a kiss, as he had the very first time they had met. "I love you, too."

Giddy with his touch and the embrace of his love, Beverly turned the doorknob, opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

"Oh!"

Lwaxanna and Kate were standing at the top of the stairs. Lwaxanna, who had exclaimed in surprise, immediately remembered whom else she had once encountered sneaking out of that very room. "Isn't that the captain's bedroom?"

Beverly blanched and tried, unsuccessfully, to think fast. "It—yes, but . . . he's not in there." She prayed that she sounded more convincing to the other women than she did to herself. With her hair down and her face possibly flushed, she knew she must have looked curious, at the very least.

"Oh course, he's not," Kate rose to her defense, to Beverly's great relief.

"Well, what in the world were you doing in there?" Lwaxanna asked.

"I, uh . . . ."

Kate took Beverly's arm protectively. "I understand, dear. You just wanted to . . . be with his things."

Beverly bowed her head to stare at the floor, her mock embarrassment a convenient disguise for her actual discomfiture.

Kate looked behind Beverly's back at Lwaxanna, who was staring wide-eyed at the other two women. "Lwaxanna, I don't think the whole county needs to know that Beverly is still infatuated with the man who broke her heart, do you?" Kate's firm tone brooked no discord.

Lwaxanna opened her mouth to say something but Kate simultaneously glowered at her and patted Beverly's back. The latter gesture awoke a compassion in Lwaxanna, a sympathy for the woman who had saved the lives of her precious daughter and her gorgeous grandson. Right then and there, she changed her mind. She stretched out her bangled wrists and grabbed Beverly's other arm. "Come along, Beverly dear," she said. "You're a beautiful woman, or you could be with some help, and you have a . . . ," she paused to think, "a good heart. A very good heart." She hoped her encouragement was sufficient, despite her struggling to enumerate Beverly's winning traits. The younger woman was much too preoccupied with her medical things and did not devote enough time and effort to making herself attractive—that was her problem, Lwaxanna reasoned. "I know!" She squeezed Beverly's arm and looked at Kate. "We'll find you a man! That's it. With a little work, I'm sure we could find someone for you, dear."

Beverly looked up then, alarmed at the prospect of Lwaxanna's matchmaking attention. How could she evade that beneficent gesture?

"Excuse me."

Dark circles under her eyes and strands of her dark curly hair flying all about her in a disheveled halo, Deanna stood in the doorway of her bedroom holding her tiny son, from whom emanated sounds seemingly larger than his body. "If any of you has a suggestion to stop William from shrieking, I would love to hear it."

Having heard Lwaxanna and Kate perilously close to the sanctuary of his bedroom, the fear of discovery had caused Jean-Luc to react with uncharacteristic panic. He dressed frantically and stepped into his boots without tying them. Convinced that the women would burst into the room any minute, he thought quickly and identified his best option as withdrawal. Scanning his sleep chamber with military acuity, he acted decisively. He quickly crossed the room to one of the windows and threw open the sash. He freed the curtains from their cords so that they would cover his escape route and then he sat on the window ledge with his feet briefly dangling out and jumped.

Jean-Luc landed with his knees bent to absorb the impact, on his feet and his hands, in back of the house. Satisfied that he had eluded his potential pursuers and not hurt himself, he straightened and noticed Miles O'Brien, holding a big basket of clean laundry, about ten yards away, staring at him.

Unable to help himself, O'Brien froze, with his mouth open, looking incredulously at his respected commanding officer.

"Ah," Jean-Luc nodded. "Private."

"Captain."

"I, uh, I was . . . ." Jean-Luc turned and looked up at his bedroom window, as if examining the safety of his route. Inspiration came to him. He turned to the junior officer with new confidence. "I was working on staying fit."

"Sir?"

"We're, ah, all at risk of softening while we're on leave. I think it's important to keep challenging ourselves and, uh," he made fists of his hands and flexed his biceps, "find ways to stay . . . physically strong."

Before happening upon the captain, O'Brien had thought that lugging the liberally stacked laundry baskets from the washing cabin near the Ro house all the way to the Picard kitchen was an effort. Now, because the idea that the captain might be crazy was out of the question, O'Brien swiftly concluded that he, too, might need to jump out second floor windows or, at the very least, devise an exercise routine.

"Aye, sir, I'll get right on that."

With no choice but to defend his absurd cover story, Jean-Luc replied curtly, "See that you do, private." With as much dignity as he could muster, he turned and marched toward the barn.

* * *

The entire idea made Mr. Soong quite nervous. As Geordi sat on his stool thinking and Wesley scribbled, Mr. Soong began to pace. At opposite ends of the large table that they had long used for drawings and plans for agricultural improvements, Worf and Ben both looked thoughtful. Eventually, Mr. Soong's fidgeting drew Worf's attention and the taller man scowled. Captain Picard noticed.

"Mr. Soong, you don't think it will work?" He asked.

In his head, numerous objections had formed, but the manager struggled to put them into words. "We don't really . . . . There are so many . . . . How do we . . . ?"

Geordi saved him. "Captain, I think, theoretically, it could be done, but the problem is, none of us has the first idea how to do it."

Jean-Luc lowered his eyes to the table, where Wesley was diagramming the process. The other men, except Geordi, leaned over the drawing.

Worf did not recognize any of the strange machines, assuming they were machines. He frowned, unsure how he would be able to supervise men working on them.

Ben looked at the pictures with the goal of making sense of them. However, he soon realized that they were unrecognizable and he would need more information. Once he learned what the drawings depicted, he was intent upon mastering the new work.

Mr. Soong alone seemed able to grasp the fundamentals of Wesley's schematics. He pointed at the last two of the sketches, nodding. "I see how these would create the cloth, but how would we power them?"

Wesley indicated the second machine and began to speak rapidly. "We'd need to power the spinning and weaving machines with a steam engine. I think we can build one, with metal from the forge and some parts that we'd have to make. We could get water—well, this is the hard part—we'd have to divert the stream that runs across the road."

Mr. Soong nodded, allowing that the young man's plan had some merit. "But, how would we make the other machine? Wouldn't that take us a very long time?"

Geordi shook his head. "Divert a stream that might not even provide enough water? Build a factory from scratch? Why re-invent the wheel?" He asked. "Someone's already invented machines to spin and weave cotton into cloth."

"Yeah, but they're in Massachusetts," Wesley answered. "Unless you know of a way to get them here, that's not much help to us."

"Massachusetts?" A bell rang in Jean-Luc's mind.

"That's where a lot of clothing manufacturing is."

Jean-Luc tapped the table that held Wesley's sketches. "Finish these drawings and bring them to my office. I have an idea of how we can get machinery from the North." With a final and harder tap on the table, he spun and walked quickly away from the meeting.

"But, Captain," Mr. Soong said to his retreating form, "where would we even _put_ a textile mill?"

"I have a plan," the captain called back cheerily without turning around.

* * *

"This is a terrible plan," Q said.

After reviewing the diagrams and the business analysis at the small desk in his cell for only a few short minutes, Q swiveled in the chair he had commandeered from his cousin to study the author of the blueprint he had just discredited.

"But I do think you're on to something," he allowed.

Sitting in the uncomfortable, straight-backed chair that Sheriff Q had left for him on the other side of the cell, Jean-Luc could not help feeling slighted by Q's rapid dismissal of Wesley's intricate drawings and his own business plan. He tried unsuccessfully to hide his sore feelings. "Oh?" He asked with feigned casualness.

"Yes." Ignoring his colleague's smarting, Q stood and began to pace, his heels clicking on the wooden floorboards of his infuriatingly tiny cell, outlining his argument. "First, you are absolutely correct not to trust Kyle Riker. Your instinct to not accept his proposal to manipulate the price of cotton is a sound one." Despite the compliment he had just bestowed, Q squinted at Jean-Luc, a man he considered formidable and a likely adversary. Why, Q wondered, had Picard chosen to confide in him? He detected no sense of personal loyalty from the man, but neither did he see anything about Picard's manner or face that suggested deception or, for that matter, that indicated a superior intellect. Q wasted no time in deciding to trust him as much as he needed.

"The problem with your plan is your analysis of the local demand for cotton."

Jean-Luc's eyes widened slightly. "But, the Confederate army will need cotton. Women won't be able to buy new clothing, dresses and such. I would think—"

"The army needs a lot of cotton, but Kyle likely has contracts executed already to provide that. Not that many women will be buying new frocks when they'll be showing off how much they're _sacrificing_ for the cause." Q rolled his eyes with his last comment.

Jean-Luc had been sure that, by manufacturing clothing locally for the army and civilians, who soon would be cut off from fabric produced elsewhere, he would practically guarantee a source of growing income for his plantation. He frowned. "How could there be insufficient demand when the blockade—"

Q continued, "The blockade will always be porous for those who know how to get through it." He stopped moving and bore into Jean-Luc with his searing brown eyes. "Instead of trying to smuggle a spinning jenny and a weaver through the blockade, you would make a much larger profit by running your cotton through the blockade and selling it in England."

Jean-Luc held the taller man's gaze. "And you know someone who can run the blockade and deliver my cotton to London?"

"As it so happens, I do. An old acquaintance from Charleston with a long and successful history of running illicit businesses." Q's voice and his resumed pacing carried an optimistic jaunt.

"And you trust him?"

"I do. In fact, I've already been in touch with him regarding my own cotton crop."

Considering the third unsettling business offer he had received in a few days' time, Jean-Luc felt distinctly as though he were stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place. Alynna Nechayev, Kyle Riker, Q. Each landowner could threaten his interests. Each Confederate patriot could have him arrested if they discovered his work on the underground railroad. Each businessman (or woman) could swindle him out of his profits.

Yet, if he did nothing, there was a possibility that he would have no profits, if Kyle commandeered the local market and the blockade dried up the larger markets.

Q stared at him expectantly.

"I'll let you know by the end of the week."

* * *

Attempting to preemptively disarm the group, Jean-Luc held the after-dinner meeting in the comfortable front parlor, rather than the more business-like dining room. Everyone settled into the cushioned sofa, loveseat and chairs. Candlelight softened the atmosphere in the room in the early-evening darkness of winter and the fire crackled a peaceful melody.

Despite his efforts, however, only the imperturbable Guinan appeared not to be nervous. A spread of holiday treats sat untouched on the coffee table before the sofa. A few of them held cups with tea or coffee, which Jean-Luc prayed no one would spill on Marie's furniture or carpet.

He laid out Senator Riker's scheme to corner the local cotton market and Alynna's offer to let them farm a portion of her land. He explained the Union blockade and how it would make exporting cotton and importing clothing next to impossible. Finally, he described Q's bold idea to run the blockade and sell their cotton for a much higher price in England.

"I've given this a great deal of thought. I believe that our best options are to take on the farming of Mrs. Nechayev's property," Mr. Soong's eyes widened and Worf frowned at the prospect of managing the additional work, "and to partner with Q to get our cotton to market in England."

The second pronouncement prompted everyone to respond, with gasps, declarations of "No," and visages of concern.

Ro sat up straight, gripping the arms of her chair. "Are you out of your mind?"

Worf's head spun toward her. "Do not speak to the captain in that manner!"

Ro's disdain was clear in her face and her voice. "We're talking about Q—the vigilante who locked Wesley up and sent him off to war."

"No, Kyle Riker forced Wesley into the army," Beverly corrected.

"Q's had a hand in a lot of other terrible deeds in the county," Ro countered.

"Yes," Worf agreed, "his power—and his abuse of power—are well known."

"He only cares about himself," Wesley added. "I think he's bound to double-cross you at some point."

Geordi shook his head. "I don't know, captain."

Mr. Soong looked utterly confused. "I, uh, I don't think this is a good idea."

Having only heard stories, but never having met the man, Ben remained silent, listening to the words of those he respected. The person he most respected, however, sat equally as silent, next to Beverly and Wesley on the couch.

For a few minutes, the others continued their protests, speaking to each other as much as to the captain. Finally, the clamor died down as one by one the conductors noticed that Jean-Luc, like Ben, was staring at one person. Each pair of eyes in the room eventually settled on the silent sentry flanked by the Crushers.

Her arms in front of her, Guinan's hands were tucked into her wide sleeves in a position that many had seen her adopt at serene moments. Unlike those countless times, however, her face wore a fierce intensity and her defiant gaze was leveled at one man like a rifle. The sudden quiet of the room only amplified her fury.

When she spoke, she sent a chill down many a spine of her colleagues. "You have no idea what Q is capable of. He could rain destruction on everything and every _one_ you love."

Jean-Luc involuntarily glanced at Beverly. She met his eyes with concern, remembering his warning about Q's mercurial immorality. Communicating easily with their eyes and subtle facial changes, Beverly conveyed to him that she was worried about his plan, but she trusted him, and he let her know that he would explain everything to her later.

Returning to the simmering house manager, Jean-Luc nodded. "Yes, I understand that Q is dangerous—"

"You don't know _how_ dangerous," Guinan interrupted.

Jean-Luc paused. Before he could persuade everyone to warm up to his unexpected proposal, he would need an opportunity to set forth his reasoning. "Guinan, everyone, please give me a chance to explain how I arrived at this decision and what safeguards I intend to put into place to protect us all from Q's . . . capriciousness."

The group looked to Guinan, who begrudgingly nodded her assent.

"Thank you," Jean-Luc said with a slight bow.

"Now, I made up my mind quite quickly to help Mrs. Nechayev. She seems to be in a bind of some—"

"Why do we care?" Ro asked loudly. "She wouldn't lift a finger to help any of us."

"Miss Ro, please," Jean-Luc implored. "Allow me to finish."

Ro sat back, with an ugly sigh, and crossed her arms across her chest.

"That's the truth, though," Geordi muttered under his breath.

"As I was saying, I had decided to help Mrs. Nechayev, which will almost certainly create some friction between Senator Riker and myself. At the same time, I never had any intention of taking an action that would drive my neighbors into poverty, such as cornering the market for cotton. Therefore, I would antagonize Sen. Riker twice, then return to the war, with no one here to protect my interests or, if necessary to stand up to Sen. Riker."

"And you think Q will do that for you?" Ro challenged.

"Yes," Jean-Luc looked at her. "I do, for two reasons. First, I will make it a condition of my agreement with Q. Second, he hates Sen. Riker and, I would imagine, he would relish any opportunity to haggle with him."

"Haggle?" Geordi asked himself.

"Of course, my faith in Q only extends so far. I have no intention of turning my entire harvest over to him and his blockade-running acquaintance without anyone watching over the two of them. Therefore, I will also make it a condition that Worf and Mr. Soong travel with the cotton to London and meet my agent there."

Everyone reacted to that news by speaking at once.

"Are you kidding?" Miss Ro asked.

Geordi laughed.

"Hmm," Ben thought out loud.

"I still think it's too risky," Wesley said, shaking his head.

Worf's deep voice drowned out the others. "I have never been on a boat."

"Neither have I," Mr. Soong added with trepidation. "At least, not a big boat and not at sea."

Jean-Luc stood in front of the two men, seated in high backed chairs, and addressed them alone. "I realize that, gentlemen. Nevertheless, I trust the two of you to rise to the occasion and keep an eye on our cotton for the duration of the journey." He gave them what he hoped was a reassuring look. "Naturally, you both will be well compensated for your trouble."

At first, the people on edge in the comfortable room seemed unsure of what to say. Ro looked at Worf, assessing how he might fare in this assignment, weighing his excellent instincts, strength and both mental and physical agility in tough situations against the fact that he had never navigated the world of commerce, out in the open, over a vast ocean and into a foreign country. Next, her glance wandered to Mr. Soong, and her eyebrows flew up, alarmed by the image of the brilliant, but absent-minded, overseer shepherding everyone's livelihood to another continent. She would not trust him to take the cotton into town by himself.

"Captain," she began, struggling to find more moderate words for her opinions, "I know Worf is very capable, but this is new territory for him and for Mr. Soong. And Mr. Soong . . . ." She felt all eyes in the room upon her and her cheeks heated up. "I just . . . . Captain, are you sure these are the best two people for the job?"

Guinan appreciated that Ro had spoken far more diplomatically than usual and smiled, briefly, at her young protégé.

Jean-Luc nodded as he stepped toward her. "A very good question and the answer is yes. Worf," he gestured toward the large man, "has proven himself time and again in his work on the railroad. We know that he can think on his feet and improvise if needed. And, of course, he's imposing enough to forestall many threats and strong enough to combat any."

People nodded their accord with this assessment.

"Mr. Soong," Jean-Luc continued, "is intelligent, good with numbers, which may come in handy, and has two additional very needed qualifications: his sex and the color of his skin."

He paused to let that sober truth sink in.

"Very simply, although Worf will travel openly as a freed man, I believe it will be safer, and perhaps more advantageous, if he has a white man with him to travel through the south and to conduct business."

His stark justification brought to many a mind the injustices of its veracity. Ben was smart and physically strong. Miss Ro would be brave and a tough negotiator. Although she was needed on the plantation, Guinan would have been a careful, thoughtful companion. If she were not pregnant, Beverly likely would have been able to handle the job. But none of these candidates were the white man who came and went virtually anywhere he wished in their world. Jean-Luc watched the realization dawn on each person's face.

Guinan shook her head. "I still don't think it's a good idea to trust Q. This scheme could go wrong in too many ways."

Feeling that he finally had a reasonable grasp of the situation, Ben spoke up. "I know it's risky, but I believe we have to take some risks. Things have changed and we have to change to meet new challenges. If there's anything I can do to help, captain, let me know."

Jean-Luc gazed in admiration at the man he had once conducted but did not know well.

Worf piped up. "I do not like having to trust Q. But, I will guard our cotton with my life."

No one doubted the sincerity of his promise.

Mr. Soong felt obliged to speak, but too uncertain to voice the confidence that Worf had proclaimed.

Sensing the man's uncertainty, Jean-Luc stepped next to him and set a hand on his shoulder. "Mr. Soong, I know that this task is outside your usual area of expertise with machines and agriculture. Under the circumstances, however, I need you to take on a larger role, to look inside yourself and draw from reserves of personal fortitude that I know you possess. You _will_ be able to do this.'

Guinan and Beverly looked at one another, silently asking _how_ Jean-Luc knew what hidden strengths lay beneath Mr. Soong's modest, unassuming exterior.

Wesley, in contrast, recognized Jean-Luc's personal speech to Mr. Soong as the type of encouragement he often doled out to his troops. As he watched, the doubtful man seemed to sit up straighter, with a new light in his eyes as he looked up to the captain. Wesley suddenly felt that Mr. Soong would do fine.

Jean-Luc looked over at Ro for her approval.

Her arms still crossed her chest and she still retained serious concerns, however, she was a risk taker herself. "I've covered a lot of miles with Worf. I believe he can keep the cotton safe, _if_ Mr. Soong can assist him when he's needed and stay out of the way when he isn't." She glared at the former overseer and at the captain, satisfied that she had expressed her view, diplomacy be damned.

"It might work," Geordi, ever cautious, offered.

Jean-Luc turned to the two most important women, seated side-by-side on the sofa.

Guinan spoke first, calmly but forcefully. "Captain, shortly after I met you, I placed a tremendous amount of faith in you. You made good decisions, you acted on your morals and you were a brilliant planner. I've never had a reason to doubt you. Until now.

"I think you're underestimating the threat of Q and overestimating the ability of your people to stand up to Q and his accomplice and anyone else they encounter in this hateful world on a journey beyond their imaginations. I cannot and will not agree with this decision. You are putting all of us in great peril, of starvation, of losing the land we live on and worse."

Jean-Luc sucked in a breath. No one moved or spoke. Guinan's opinion, he knew, carried considerable weight with everyone—more than his own? Would her reservations and her ominous warning undermine his support? Had Guinan's sharp tongue just slashed their confidence in him, for this idea and, possibly, future plans as well?

Beverly looked around the room to take stock of the reactions and was disappointed by the questioning looks she found. She could think of no other solution to wend their way through the web of intrigue that Kyle, Alynna and Q had woven. Although there were several good reasons to reject Jean-Luc's plan, she nevertheless trusted him to make his risky scheme succeed. She looked at him and saw his eyes darken and his cheek muscles twitch, as if he had begun to doubt himself. She cleared her throat daintily and asked gently, "Captain, are you _absolutely_ sure that this is the best thing to do?"

He looked at her earnestly. "Yes, I am positive that this temporary alliance with Q is necessary to protect our profits and our land."

"And are you _absolutely_ sure that Worf and Mr. Soong can safely transport the cotton to England, sell it and return home with the profits?"

Jean-Luc answered as though he were speaking only to Beverly. "Of course, I can't guarantee their safety or success. No one can guarantee that any course of action will work out as planned. But, nearly all my life I have relied on my instincts and analyses to plot courses for myself and for people under my command. I carefully weigh possible risks and benefits and I only recommend a course of action when I am as sure as I can be that it is safe and the best means of reaching our goal. I've had to make life or death decisions before and I do not make them lightly. Trust me, I wouldn't have suggested this temporary alliance and ocean voyage if I weren't confident that they would work."

Beverly stared into his earnest eyes and understood. "All right," she said, fighting a lump in her throat as she turned to the others. "This war may make us do a lot of things that we wouldn't ordinarily do. I don't like Q at all, but I trust the captain's judgment." She gave her husband a fleeting glance then addressed the group again with a nod. "I'm going to do whatever I can to help make this work."

To Jean-Luc's surprise, each of the conspirators began to nod and make eye contact with him to demonstrate their solidarity. He had won their confidence and they were behind his plan. It was the first time he had ever witnessed so many people disagreeing with Guinan, the revered sage of both her people and his.

For her part, Guinan sat glaring at him as though she were aware of the defections, even though she had never turned to look at her colleagues. Jean-Luc felt no sense of victory as her eyes burned into him. Instead, he felt his pride and gratitude toward Beverly for her powers of persuasion fade as he became alarmed that he had gained full endorsement of a complex, perilous plot of which Guinan disapproved.


End file.
